A New Normal
by CuriTeaist
Summary: What if help never came for Debra Morgan at the end of season one? What if Brian had a chance to salvage his relationship with Dexter? Old bonds are broken as new ones form.
1. Chapter 1

Angel Batista is in pain. Not that he is complaining, mind you. It's just that being stabbed hurts, more so than most people think. The scar definitely isn't worth it. And besides, he can't feel sorry for himself at a time like this. He's safely in the hospital, recovering, and that's more than he can say for Debra Morgan. He looks up at the television, watching the press conference about the Ice Trucker Killer, hoping that the police have found a new clue -anything- that will help lead them to the kidnapped cop. She was a nice girl, bright too; like her brother and father, if what he had heard was true.

He focuses on the television, trying to dismiss his fond thoughts as his worry increased to a painful degree, but his annoying roommate is still chanting, "She knows, she knows", again and again. The guy clearly belongs in a different kind of hospital. The loony bin where the shouting would blend in unnoticed.

Angel tries to be the better man and just turn up the volume to listen to the press conference. It's not like his roommate is doing this to annoy him, it isn't his fault. Angel would even feel sorry for the guy if he wasn't so damn annoying. Even still, his temper snaps with the next 'she knows'.

"Yeah, well, if she knows, yapping about it isn't going to help anything, so shut the fuck up!" He bellows.

He wasn't a man quick to anger but there is only so much a guy can take. Being stabbed, having a fellow cop kidnapped by a serial murder, and being locked in a room with a man yelling 'she knows' for hours on end is just too much. He'll probably need to be thrown into the loony bin himself if he doesn't get out of there soon. His anger does no good of course, his roommate is still yelling 'she knows' just as loudly. Angel goes back to just trying to block him out. He returns his focus to the television.

"The suspect is operating under an alias, Rudy Cooper. We didn't have his fingerprints in our criminal database, so his identity is still unknown to us."

Angel leans back in his bed. He wishes he could help. The Ice Truck Killer has his coworker; Debra Morgan. He wishes he could help them find her and the mother fucker that took her. But he can't. Not from his bed in the hospital. He's useless. Instead he just closes his eyes and wills himself to fall asleep. When the nurse enters to give his roommate his meds, he doesn't acknowledge her, and she doesn't acknowledge him. Instead he just falls asleep.

The nurse never made small talk with Angel, and Angel never found out that they finger print psych patients and store their prints in their own database. They never ran the partial print from the cough drop wrapper against the mental institution's data base. They never identified Rudy Cooper, the Ice Truck Killer, as Brian Moser. They never looked up Brian Moser's records and found that he owns a house on 1235 Mangrove Drive. They never searched this house.

Help never came for Debra Morgan, or her brother.

* * *

I'm restricted when I wake up. I'm also sitting up-right, duct taped to a chair. My mind is too groggy to care though. I barely register it, filing it away as if it had happened to someone else. More fiction then fact. I lift my head, noting the amount of effort it takes, looking straight ahead. I'm in a kitchen, it's dark, with a hanging lamp giving light directly above the table I'm sitting at, almost like that of a cliché cop drama. Brian is sitting across from me, a beer in front of him.

Brian, my brother, who brought me here to my -_our-_ childhood home. The recent memories come back to me. My mind starts to recall what happened, but I still can't seem to put things together. The needle in my neck. Brian drugged me, that makes sense. I understand now, but I still can't bring myself to care.

"Nothing personal. I just wanted to have a beer with you before we got started." Brian says, his voice thick. I can't quite tell if it's with anger or hurt. My drugged mind tries to figure out the full implications of what he just said, but I just can't think straight. I can barely keep my eyes open.

"You made that kind of difficult." He finishes. I try harder to bring my mind to focus. That's right, I was running around, ignoring him. I vaguely remember him saying something about beer, almost pleadingly.

"Sorry," I say shortly.

I'm not sure if it's the manners Harry drove into me in an attempt to make me appear normal, or if it is because I really do feel that I was in the wrong. I can't force my mind to think about it any longer either. Brian leans closer by a few inches, bringing his face into the light.

"You never have to apologize to me Dexter. Not for who you are, or anything you do." There's a meaning in his voice that misses me. He's trying to tell me something very important. I just can't figure out what it is yet. Instead I move to thoughts easier for my muddled brain to think.

I look around the house for the first real time. It seems so familiar, like waking up from a dream, left only with vague wisps that make no sense. I continue to look, hoping to find another lost memory to emerge. I want to know more. Brian joins me in looking around. He probably doesn't have any shortage of memories. I'm almost jealous.

"Looks just like it use to, doesn't it?" He says, looking back at me.

"Who does it belong it?" I ask. It seems fairly empty, clearly not in use.

"Me," he says, looking off to the side. "I got it for you actually," he informs me, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. The implications are still a lot, and my mind still isn't up to excessive thinking. I'm becoming more aware of things though. My natural reflex kicks in.

"I'm really more of an apartment person." I joke, even though I can't put any emotion into my voice. I don't need to joke here, I realize. Is that what Brian was trying to tell me? Maybe, I can't think about it any longer.

He sighs softly and shakes his head. Something I did met with his disapproval. My stomach tightens, and I wonder why I even care if I earn his disproval. Because he's my brother, something deep inside tells me. Blood, we share blood. Hot, sticky, messy blood binds us together, birthing and breaking us, if you wanted to be dramatic. And I do love blood.

"You're trapped in a lie, little brother." Brian tells me. My stomach flutters at the words 'little brother'; I don't understand why, the implications are still too much. "The same lie they tried forcing me into," he continues. My drugged mind is clear enough to realize one implication.

"They?"

"Doctors, therapists, group leaders...What a family they were," he rolls his eyes as he says it. My interest perks. I know that this man is my brother, that we both witnessed our mother's death, but I know very little about his past next to that. He, on the other hand, knows so much about me.

"You were never put up for adoption." I state. Was he raised in institutions? I don't like that thought.

"Afraid not. You were three, a little bird with a broken wing. First cop on scene, Harry Morgan. Going to make you all better." Brian sounds so bitter, understandably so. I wonder vaguely why Harry only took me. That doesn't seem...fair. Even by my deranged standards.

"But me? I could see it in his eyes. All he saw was a fucked up kid. They all did. So they locked me up." He fills me in on his childhood, his view of what happened, looking a little distant for the first time.

My stomach turns again. The new information really doesn't sit well. I had a home, a family, and a true father who made sure I survived. Brian had none of that. And yet, there is no difference between us. Did I go to a better home simply because I lucked out? Yet Brian, he was locked up, forgotten about, left behind. A few years older, and we would have been together. I silently wish it did work out like that. That Harry saw two fucked up kids, instead of just the one.

"I didn't even know you existed." I say. This would have been a good thing to clue me in about. I would have wanted to know. I did want to know. I have a brother. In every sense of the word, I have a fucking _brother_.

"Of course you didn't. Harry wanted to keep you all to himself." Brian says with clear venom. He doesn't like Harry, so it seems. "And while you were being raised by the Morgan family, I only had a memory of a family."

He has a good reason to dislike Harry. Harry helped me, but what did he do for Brian? Let him rot in an institution, that's all. The reality clashes with my memories of Harry. He had lied about my...our father, and left Brian to rot. Then he covered it all up, tricked me.

"Me." I add the omitted word to Brian's last sentence. He wants his family, and I'm the only one left. I'm all he has.

"Mom always told me to look after you." He reminiscences. I try to remember our mom. The only memories I have of her are of us playing Hide-and-Seek and her getting cut up. As much as I wish for more memories, they don't come to me.

"Imagine how I felt when I tracked you down and found out you were exactly like me," Brian finishes. The idea still excites him, I see it in his eyes. I can understand why too.

"I don't have to imagine," because I don't. Sure, I didn't track him down, but to find out that I have a brother who is like myself...I feel the same way as him. I'm not alone.

Brian is pleased. He leans back and smiles; small, but genuine. It only lasts a brief moment though. He stands and grabs a knife off the table. I tense, panic rearing its head. Being duct taped to a chair, alone with a known sociopath holding a knife is usually not a good place to be. But he only cuts the tape tying me to the chair before placing the knife back on the table. I feel almost guilty for doubting my brother. He kneels next to me, looking at me.

"I know what you have been going through all these years. The isolation...the otherness...the hunger that is never satisfied," and his words are so true. One of the most real things I've ever heard; they're beautiful. "But you're not alone anymore, Dexter." He says as he takes my hand with both of his.

They're are warm, hot even. I can feel his pulse beat quickly. He's excited. I still haven't fully woken up, but the idea excites me too. "With me. Your real, genuine self," and the thought gives me shivers. No more pretending. It's an idea I presumed would never become reality. I presumed wrongly.

"Takes the breath away, doesn't it?" he mutters.

And it does. After constantly pretending and acting, day in and day out, to be able to talk to someone, to _really_ talk and say my true thoughts...It's a revolutionary idea.

Another memory comes to me. I'm playing cars in the hallway, Brian's arms around me. A sense of familiarity comes to me this time. It's no longer me watching little Dexter and little Brian; it's me and my brother, how we use to be. I turn to Brian and place my hand on his, an agreement. To show him that I'm with him, that I won't turn from him. That the idea does take my breath away.

He shows his understanding by letting out a relieved breath and sliding the knife into my hands.

"I think we are ready for Debra." He tells me.

The words take a second to sink in. He wants me to kill her. My mind goes numb as the euphoric feeling gives way to reality. I feel a hand on my shoulder, beckoning me to stand. Brian is there, ready to go. I stand in a daze, numbed legs wanting to buckle. Deb or Brian? I'm not ready to make that choice. I can't choose. Brian's hand is on my back, guiding me to the back door. He's going to make me choose. I let him herd me. I can't fight him. If I fight him, it's still making the choice, and it's choosing Deb. I want my brother. I hold the knife tightly in my hand as we leave the house and enter a long shed in the back. I also want my sister.

Deb is inside, prepared just the way I like it. Things just got real again. Not like before, inside the house filled with happy thoughts of brotherhood. Even when we left the house, killing Deb was still just a concept. But now...She's here, ready and waiting; real. This is the downside of it all. Throwing away the life that Harry worked so hard to construct for me. Starting with Deb, so it seems is Brian's plan.

"I prepared her just the way you like." Brian says from a few feet behind me.

I'm ignoring him again. Deb _is_ prepared just right. Drugged asleep and naked, lying on a well-lit table, just the right height for me, constricted with plastic wrap. So perfectly my style, just not my hands. The only thing is her mouth. Brian duct taped her mouth, it'll leave residue, not to mention it's hard to remove and replace for conversation. Not that I would _want_ to talk to Deb like this. This scene is all wrong. I don't want to go through my pre-murder chat. I usually accuse my victim of whatever evil deed they did. But Deb did nothing. There'd be nothing to say other than sorry. It'd be all wrong. Against everything Harry taught me. That's why Brian choose Deb, it's the epitome of severing my ties with Harry. My brother does love symbolism.

"This time we'll do it together." Brian says.

He wants to kill Deb with me. I turn around and look at him. I can't kill Deb. But I can't not kill Deb. I don't want to choose, but I really can't post-pone this for long. Deb or Brian? Sister or brother? The Code or freedom?

"Does it have to be Deb?" I ask, even though I know the answer. It's just my pitiful and round-about way to beg to not have to choose between my brother and my sister. As though I could live with both. Wishful thinking, I know.

"It's the only way," comes Brian's calm response. He's expecting this, my hesitance. He's certain, though, that I'll choose him. He always seems to know exactly what will happen and when. Does he know my actions before even I know them? However he knows all he knows, it seems to tell him that I'll choose him. But will I? I can't imagine killing Deb. I can't imagine turning my back on my brother either.

"But she's my-" I start, but am interrupted.

"Fake sister, I know." He corrects me, still so calm, so sure.

My fake sister, my mind boggles. I've never considered her fake. I'm not sure why, when everything else I do is just part of the act. Maybe because Harry made her more than that. Someone I have to protect. If I kill Deb, it'll fly in the face of everything Harry taught me. Then why I am still considering it?

Brian pushes a cart full of tools towards the table. It gives off a gentle rattle as it collides with the table. The tools used for cutting and maiming flesh seem to call out to me, begging to be used. Everything seems so right. It's just the person on the table that is wrong. So terribly wrong.

"Tell me something. Your victims, are they all killers?" He asks with disbelief and a hint of disrespect. He doesn't approve of The Code. I'm starting to doubt it myself.

"Yes," I reply numbly. All of them. I've made certain of that. And Harry made certain that I'd make certain. Harry. Sometimes he seems more like a puppet master than a father. But maybe people like me need puppet masters more than fathers.

"Harry teach you that?" He says with such venom in his voice. It was posed as a question, but clearly wasn't.

"He taught me a code...To survive," because it is all about survival, right? Rule number one, don't get caught. Then why are there rules about who to kill?

"So, you're an avenger." He mocks carefully. He's wrong. He walks around the table and stands next to me. He knows he's wrong. He's leading me down this mental trail, baiting me to think just the right way. I can't bother to feel violated right now. Not by my brother anyway. Harry, on the other hand...

"That's not why I kill." He makes me say it, to remind me that I'm no better than my victims.

"You can be yourself around me." He tries to get me to come all the way out. To share with him what I don't even dare tell myself. I stay silent. I can't. "Who am I?" Brian asks, pulling me further into the forbidden thought zone. The area where I question all that Harry taught me and why I should follow it.

"A killer." I state. Just like all of my victims. He doesn't seem at all put off though. Instead he just gives a slow nod, telling me to expand on that thought. "Without reason, or regret," I say it to demonize Brian, to try to show him that The Code gives me purpose, but even as I say the words, I long to join him in his senseless life. "Free," I end. Free of reason and regret. Free of The Code.

"You can be that way too," he tells me. How does he always know exactly what to say and when? Because how I do want to be that way. The idea excites me. To kill freely along side my brother. But I can't, if it means killing Deb. I can't disobey Harry like that. Right?

"But The Code," the one constant in my life. The unquestionable code. The one that I am questioning. I can't just let go...Can I? Is it truly just that easy?

Brian laughs at that thought. "Dexter, you don't have a code!" Brian shouts playfully, but he still doesn't hide the frustration tinting his voice. "Harry did. And he's been dead ten years. You can't keep him sitting on your shoulder like Johnny fucking Cricket," he tells me as he guides me next to Deb.

He laughs, and I do to, because for one brief moment, the question crosses my mind. Why should I follow The Code? But everything that Harry has taught me pushes that question out of my head. I follow The Code because The Code tells me to.

"You need to embrace who you are now." Brian continues to urge me, pulling me away from Harry and closer to him. Like a siren, he calls to me, promising me freedom. And I know he's not lying.

Part of me wants to follow him so badly, to throw Harry's Code out the window and be free, but that is only a small part. Everything else is screaming at me to stop. To end this all and run back to my normal life. That this is wrong in every way. That Brian is trying to trick me, corrupt The Code. I can't go though. I can't leave Brian. It's a choice I can't make. I can't kill Deb, but I can't leave Brian either. I also can't sit in this room voicing my uncertainty forever. A choice has to be made.

I look down at Deb, and that one rebellious part of me makes a discovery. Without The Code, I have no clue what to do. How to kill, how to hunt, or how to think. It's all based on The Code.

"I don't know who I am," I share this discovery with my brother. It's one of the most real things I've ever said, a real problem stated without any half-truths or lies. An honest concern to my honest brother.

"Of course you don't. You've been away from your family since you were three," Brian says with bitterness. An honest reply from my honest brother. I have been away from my family for so long. Or am I being dragged away from my family now? Brian or Deb?

"But I'm here now. I can help you. We can take this journey together." Brian smiles and takes a step back, because in the end, it's still my hand that will be behind Deb's death. Brian wants to free me. Or does he want to trick me? I clench the knife tightly with both hands. It shakes slightly. I look down at Deb. The part of me that wants freedom wills the knife to move, to go into her chest. To slice flesh and rupture arteries, pulling her life right our of her body and ending all that is Debra Morgan.

But it doesn't. My hands won't move. I simply cannot kill her. "I can't," I whisper to Brian. "Not Deb," not my sister. My _real_ sister. And I hold my breath, because I know the choice has been made. I wish I could kill Deb, but I can't. For so many reasons, I cannot.

"No, no. Don't...Don't say that," Brian pleads, thrown off, the string of my rejection clear. My chest tightens with guilt. He was wrong. Whatever forces tells him what to say and what will happen lied. I can't kill Deb. And he knows that. He's horrified.

"I'm very...fond of her," I tell Brian. Is it just Harry's teaching? Or do I really care for her? I'm not sure anymore. I don't know where Harry ends and I begin.

"You can't be a hero and a killer." He mutters, almost boiling before my eyes with pure rage. The anger that I always knew was there comes out and spills all over him, drenching him in hatred. "It doesn't work that way!" He yells. I look at him, my happy dreams shattering. The rebellious part of me returns to the dark recesses of my mind. My teaching, Harry, The Code, it all comes back to me.

And Brian may have once been my brother, but now he is a mad man, a ruthless killer. I have no loyalties to the man yelling at me. My loyalties lie with Harry and Deb. I wonder how I could have even considered killing her in favor of the man in front of me. His once calm and accepting face has twisted into something wicked and evil, filled with hatred. Just like all of my other victims. The ones that I kill without hesitance.

He grabs the knife out of my hand and raises it, preparing to stab Deb. My mind doesn't think, my hands, the hands that refused to let the knife enter her chest once before, do it again. I catch his wrist before the blade ever touches Deb. Deb's eyes open just as I catch Brian's hand. Her eyes are watching me now, this moment is no longer private. The mask slips back on with the ease of years of practice.

I push Brian against the wall, because he's _not_ my brother anymore. He's dangerous, an enemy. I twist his wrist while he is still in shock. The knife drops with a clatter, but neither of us reach for it. I briefly wonder why, because it could easily decide the winner.

He swings around me and uses his free hand to get me into a head lock. I panic, this is not a good place to be. His arm tightens around my neck, cutting off air and blood. I struggle and kick, trying to get him off me, but to no avail. My limbs begin to go numb, and I know I will black out soon. I try again to free my head, but I can't. I drop to my knees, gasping. I claw at his arms weakly, my last attempt at victory. His arm just tightens around my neck.

"Sorry Dex." Brian says softly. He's back to being Big Brother Brian, and not the ruthless Ice Truck Killer. The thought is comforting, that I'll be with family, even though it's illogical. I don't have enough time to realize the absurdity of this thought before the darkness comes over me yet again.

* * *

Dexter goes limp in Brian's arms. Too limp. Worry floods him, and he _has_ to check his brother's pulse. It's irrational, he knows, but when it comes to his little brother, he tends to worry. It's the first proper emotion he had felt in years. He sighs, partly in relief, partly in frustration. His brother is fine, but that is just about the only thing that went right for him. There's the sound of plastic stretching and muffled screams. Debra's awake.

Anger hits him, quick and fast, washing away and replacing the despair that inhabited him prior. The knife is just a few feet away. Dexter is out cold. Debra is restrained, her cries muffled. Such easy prey. It all seems to fall together, in a neat package that spells murder.

He gets up and walks to her. Tears are running down her face, she's wiggling and trying her best to scream for help through the duct tape. He places his hands on the edge of the table, his fingers digging into her arms, and leans over her. There is no amusement in his face. The quiet excitement that had been with him before is gone. His eyes are cold, hard, and ruthless. Bloodthirsty. The knife is right there on the floor, just begging for blood.

Brian really, really, _really_ wants to kill her. She's the closest thing to Harry that he will ever be able to kill. The physical manifestation that keeps Dexter from him. The woman who dared to _replace_ him as Dexter's sibling. She is the very symbol of everything that went wrong with his brotherhood. And a killable symbol no less. His apple.

Debra breaths heavily, trying to lean as far away from Brian as possible. She manages to move a whole inch within her plastic prison. Brian only scowls at her. He truly would love to kill her. He would like to say that she knows too much, she has to be killed. He would like Dexter to wake up, apologize for the fight, and skip town with him. Brian would like many things, but he knows how life works. His plan failed. Dexter didn't kill Debra. Dexter couldn't.

Brian stands up and walks towards his supplies. His plan failed. He knows what that means. He knows from far too much experience that the natural need to carry on with the failed plan is detrimental. It's pathetic too. And Brian Moser is _not_ pathetic.

He throws a scowl at Debra one more time before preparing more tranquilizer. No, Brian knows how to adapt to change. He knows that he can't kill Debra. No matter how much he loves the thought, he knows that regaining Dexter as a brother takes priority. And Dexter doesn't want Debra killed. What Dexter wants, Dexter gets. That had always been how it worked.

Dexter needs to trust him. Brian knows it'll be the key from here on out. With all the alias and lies that they threw at each other, the truth is what they need. Brian doesn't take his eyes off Debra, even as he draws the drugs into the syringe.

How could he ever expect Dexter to trust him if he killed Debra? Brian sighs, frustrated. He was really looking forward to killing Debra. With Dexter too, but he can't live in the past. It's time to start something new, try a new route.

He plunges the syringe in Debra's neck. She is out within moments. The thought of just letting her go leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Brian looks back at Dexter. This is such a mess. He knew that rushing things wasn't good. He needed more time with Dexter before he moved. But it all happened too soon. Severe underestimates threw everything off.

Brian frowns, wandering around, gauging the situation. It appears it caught in a middle ground of sorts. Debra, who he wanted to be dead by now, is merely unconscious. Dexter, who he was hoping to be skipping town with by now, is also unconscious. Not a total failure, but far from a success.

He walks quietly and softly, with all the expertise of the predator that he is, to Debra's limp form. It kills him on the inside, it truly, truly does, but he can't kill Debra either. If he kills Debra, he knows Dexter would never forgive him. Or at least never give him the chance to earn forgiveness. He can only play the brother card so much. He can kill Debra and lose Dexter, or spare Debra and try to regain some of Dexter's trust. It's really not much of a choice. Giving up a brother, the only family he has left - and the best one he could ask for - for petty revenge? Even if the revenge would be the sweetest kill he's ever enjoyed, it's still far from worth it.

"You're just lucky, that's all." Brian whispers to Debra's still form. That's all she is, after all. It's sheer luck that Harry took Dexter in and taught him the way he did. She has her own person guardian angle, or demon, as the case may be.

Jealousy hits him with all the force of a tidal wave as his hands returned to balled fists. How hard did _he _have to work for his brother's respect, attention, and loyalties? How much more does _he_ deserve them than this woman that dares to call him 'brother'? And yet, he still calls _her_ his sibling, and not _him_. _Debra_ is still his preferred over _him_. And she doesn't even realize it. She's so fucking lucky, and has no idea.

The urge to pick up the knife and put an end to this sinful mockery of their brotherhood returns to him. His fingers twitch with the urges and needs that have plagued him for so long. He even picks of the knife and rests it gently in his hands. How light it feels...How easy it would be to send the blade slicing through air and flesh. One good cut to a major artery and Debra's heart would do the rest, pumping the blood out and all over the room. He traces one of his long fingers along the blade. It's cool, waiting and ready.

He sighs deeply, enjoying the thought, picturing how it would look like, and how it would _feel_, to put an end to Debra. He has to force his fingers to release the knife. It falls to the floor with a small clatter. He pushes the dark images and thoughts out of his head. He wills himself to return to reality. Debra won't die. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Not by his hands at least. He needs to work to regain whatever trust and loyalties that Dexter may still have to him. It won't be easy.

"But you're so fucking lucky." He whispers in Deb's ear. He moves away from her and sits down against the wall, near where Dexter lies.

"I hope you appreciate this little brother," he continues, still speaking softly. "The ball is in your court now," he says, looking down. He needs to convince Dexter that they are not enemies. Right now, that's probably where Dexter it categorizing him, as an enemy. That...hurts.

Dexter has learned a lot over the past few days. Too much. He was pushed too far too fast. Right now he needs space. Control. Brian loves control, and it stands to reason that Dexter does too. It's always a comfort. With handing over control to Dexter, Brian should earn some trust. So it's all up to Dexter now. He can do whatever he wants. Control is the key to trust, and trust is the key to fixing this mess. So the ball is in Dexter's court now, he can do whatever he wants.

Brian sighs. This will take a while, and he knows it.


	2. Chapter 2

My head hurts. It's the first thing I notice when I wake up. The second thing is that everything else also hurts, particularly my neck. It feels like I pulled every muscle in my body. I vaguely wonder why I hurt so badly, but I just want to go back sleep. I want to lie down, but I can't.

That's the next thing I notice. I'm restricted. This seems familiar. I open my eyes and raise my head to look around. Not as familiar. I'm in an empty room, early morning light is streaming through the window. There is a television set on in front of me. The news. I ignore it, deeming it unimportant. I continue to look around. Brian is sitting in a corner of the room. _My_ _brother_. The night before comes back to me. This house, my brother, Deb.

Deb, shit. I try to get out of the chair to look for her, but I can't. I'm duct taped to the chair - again. I look back to Brian. He doesn't seem to have noticed me. He's staring out the window and into the back yard. The early morning light -a helpful hint, but I would have preferred a watch- illuminates his face, showing his expression perfectly. Thoughtful, regretful, sorrowful...His expression is so full despite him being so empty.

I take a moment to really look at him, between a dawning panic and a lingering sleepiness. Before he was just some guy, but now he is just like me. His stare is empty and cold. Are my eyes like that? Yes, they are. They are the same shade of brown too. I look closer, picking out all the common traits we have. The same chin, cheeks, forehead...Little things that seem dwarfed by our differences, only there if you look for them. But that is beside the point. I have bigger things to worry about than family resemblance.

Deb. The memory of Brian attempting to plunge a knife into her doesn't let my mind stray too far. He killed her. The thought hits me hard, but I know it's true. He wants her, and needs her, dead. I was out for a few hours. Plenty of time to kill and dismember a body. Deb's dead, all because I had to play this stupid little game.

Because he killed hookers, and I never got the idea that he could kill other people. Deb's blood is still on my hands. I thrash around, trying to get out of the chair. I'm sick of this house, of my past, of my brother. I followed the rabbit down it's hole and look where it got me. Look where it got Deb. I'm so sorry, Deb, little sister...

"Where's Deb?" I demand uselessly. I look down at the chair and away from Brian. I try to get my arms loose, twisting and pulling, listening for the slight tear that'll tell me when I hit a weak point. I only hear footsteps. I ignore them and keep trying for freedom.

Brian stands behind me, leaning on the back of the chair, and points to the television. I try to look at him, to see the face of my sister's killer. Brother and killer, but I can't think that now. He can't be my brother, just because he isn't lunging for my neck. He needs to die for what he's done. For Deb.

"More on the Ice Truck Killer case. We are just receiving word that detective Debra Morgan has been found without any serious injuries," the news anchor on the television says. I snap my attention to her. Deb's safe. Brian didn't kill her. He let her go free.

"However, it appears that Morgan's brother, Dexter Morgan, is being held captive by the Ice Truck Killer, other wise known as Rudy Cooper." The news anchor explains as my pictures goes up behind her next to my brother's. I blink, trying to take this all in.

Deb's safe. Brian didn't kill her. For whatever reason, he let her go. Just like that. That...just doesn't make any sense. He let her go. Killers don't just let their victims go.

There is the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor. I turn and watch my brother sit in a chair that wasn't there a minute ago. He apparently reads the confusion on my face.

"I never wanted to offend you, Dexter." Brian tells me in his soft, brotherly voice. The voice he used when he tried to convince me to kill Deb. "I just..." he leans back in the chair, seemingly struggling for words. _Seemingly_. "I expected too much. I want to be brothers again. It doesn't seem like killing Deb will help that cause," he finishes, looking off to the side.

I blink again. Brian didn't kill Deb because I didn't want him to? That doesn't add up either. Since when do you ask a serial killer not to kill someone, and they don't? Serial killers have patterns, he may have broken it to tell me something before, but this was a whole new level.

But ignoring his motives, Deb's safe. For now at least.

"So you just let her go? Just like that?" I voice my disbelief. I know that Brian won't give any information up that he doesn't want known, but things just aren't fitting together. Maybe I can gleam something by his subtle actions. I've never been good at reading normal people, but maybe I'll have better luck with my own kin.

"We are on the same side here, little brother," last time he called me 'little brother' I thought it was endearing. This time I feel like I'm being mentally herded. I'm not going to fall for the loving brother act twice. Last time I almost did horrible things. I fight back the feeling of sincerity I get from him.

"Then why am I duct taped to a chair?" It seems odd, since we are on the same side. I stare at him accusingly, but he just stands and walks into another room for a moment. He returns with a knife. My breath catches. Sure, last time he cut me free, and will most likely do it again, but that doesn't make him any less dangerous with a knife.

Two quick cuts and I'm free. He steps back and allows me to stand and remove the tape from my body. I turn to stare at Brian. He's just standing there, looking remorseful. I stare, uncertain. As hard as I look for an alternative motive, I don't see one. If he truly just wants my companionship, like he claims, then he is doing everything right.

What else would he be trying to do? My mind draws a blank. I'm still on edge around him though. I remember the night before and how quickly he turned violent. But my instincts don't warn me of any sinister plot. Harry always taught me to follow my instincts. But what if my instincts lead me away from Harry?

Brian, my brother, and Brian, the killer. Two very different people that is one person. Somehow I can't mix the two entities. The caring brother who only wants his little brother back and the ruthless Ice Truck Killer. A gentle person who loves nothing more than to kill. Try as I might, I can't mesh the two persons. I sit back down in my chair and sigh, rubbing my eyes in confusion.

"Forgive me if I'm having trouble reconciling my oh-so-loving brother and the man who strangled me", I throw another accusation his way. I kick myself a moment later though. Brian is still holding the knife.

He may be Big Brother Brian right now, but the Ice Truck Killer is lurking just under the surface, ready and waiting to kill. But he seems so...safe. I can't see my brother attacking me. My instincts are wrong. Brian is fully capable of attacking me. He did once before.

"I'm sorry. It's just...I've waited a long time for last night. I don't like it when such big plans fail," he speaks to me in his calm, all knowing voice. I still stare, blatantly suspicious. "That's something you understand, right? Losing control of such an important situation," he tries to appeal to me for sympathy.

It's odd though, because there is no emotion in his voice, so unlike all other people when they ask for forgiveness. He just looks off to the side, out the window, and talks about it all like it's the weather. I'm not used to being asked for anything but mercy from other killer's.

"Like when you were returning from stalking Jeremy Downs in the swamps. An alligator startled you and you fell in the mud. You lost control, just for a few painless moments, but your first response was to strangle a tree." He recalls perfectly. I knew he, the Ice Truck Killer, followed me, but it seemed less real when I didn't have a face and name behind the label. But now, Brian Moser was the one that followed me, that watched me on my hunts. Big Brother was watching.

I look away, back to the television and the news anchor droning on about some dog stopping a burglary. I didn't mind it when the Ice Truck Killer watched me kill. Or when he broke into my apartment. In the game we played, he was always the one controlling it. And I liked it that way. I liked...the trust, I decide. The ability to say that this man could kill me at any given time, but won't.

It's the same man in front of me now. The barrier of suspicion that I put up to separate me and my brother cracks. That trust that I held for the Ice Truck Killer comes back, even if it's just a little bit. The respect for his masterpieces returns too. So unlike all my other victims, his kills are art, so precise and measured.

But I can't fall for that again. I can't just walk into the palm of his hand like I did before. "I need out of here," I tell him. It's more of a request, because even though the door to the outside is just a few feet away, I just stand and wait for his approval.

"I'll be here," he tells me without even looking at me.

I turn and go for the exit. I feel like running those few feet, but I settle for a fast walk. I swing the door open. The birds are chirping, sun is just rising, and I'm free. It seems all wrong that I could just walk out like that. I was duct taped to a chair, alone with an angry sociopath with a knife, and I just asked him to cut me free and let me go. This is all wrong. He just doesn't fit the picturesque serial killer. Or any serial killer. I hurry out of the yard and into my car. It's just too weird in there. Too much to deal with. I grab my keys and jam them in the ignition. I don't turn them though. Instead I lean back in my chair and sigh.

I feel almost silly. Running from a killer who isn't even chasing me. From my brother who wants nothing more than to be reunited with me. He's not in serial killer mode, he's in brother mode. He's harmless, even if it's just for the moment.

Or maybe he's up to something sinister. But I can't seem to take that thought seriously anymore. Brian wants nothing more than a reunion. That seems clear enough. There is no other motive, nothing else that he can get from letting both me and Deb go. He's still a killer, but not like the others. He's not some mindless murderer, he has a goal, purpose. It's not like my code, but it's his own thing. His journey.

That's what he called it last night. When I said I didn't know who I am, he said he could help me find myself, that he'd take the journey with me. When I first woke up, I painted all of the day before as one big trick, pure lies to lure me into his diabolical plan. But when I think about specific moments, all of them seem so honest and true. That was when he stopped lying to me. It was then that he wanted absolute truth. A clean slate to start off our new brotherhood. He was being both my brother and a killer at the same time. I recall those fateful moments, using them to combine the two parts of Brian Moser. My loving brother the Ice Truck Killer. He wants companionship, a family.

It doesn't mean that he is any less dangerous though. He lost his temper, and that is a moment I won't soon forget. Brother or no, he is still a sociopath, and prone to fits of anger and violence. Something I can't forget about him.

A knock on my window brings me back to reality. Brian's there, leaning against my car casually, yet still with that expression on his face. Pained and sorry. I roll down my window, because sociopath or no, he is still my brother.

"I drugged Debra and placed her on a park bench in the middle of the night. You should probably claim something similar happened. Also, you're going to need to lie about where you were and how you got there." My loving brother instructs me. He's right, I can't worry about him right now, he's not my next problem. A riddle more than a danger at the moment. It's my explanation as to why I was with him that I need to be thinking about.

"Thanks." I say. He gives me a small, hollow smile and returns to the house. How does he always know what to say? Can he read my mind? Or maybe, after many years of practice, he's learned how to read people perfectly.

An excuse, the explanation as to why Brian took me and how I got back. Considering what the police see as a record of randomness that Brian, or Rudy as I'll have to call him, has racked up, it shouldn't be too hard.

When I returned to my home from the searching the shipping containers for Deb, Rudy was waiting there. He drugged me and next thing I knew I was duct taped to a chair in some old house. He said that he wanted me to kill Deb. After all, Deb did wake up to see me and Rudy fighting. I have to build the lies around that one truth. He brought me to the room with Deb in it and told me to kill her. I refused and wrestled with him, kicking the gun out of his hand. Because he had to have had a gun. Then he strangled me, I passed out, and woke up on a park bench, just like Deb.

I'll work on it as I go home. I turn on my car and drive home. They are going to want every detail out of me. Kind of hard when you are bullshitting most of the details. Not to mention forensics will do a sweep and make sure everything matches. Good thing I work for forensics and know how they work.

I'm going to have to be careful not to be seen either. I need to park my car at my home, then take a bus to the nearest park. I normally wouldn't worry about being seen, but Doakes seems interested in where I've been and where I'm going as of late. He'll be my hardest critic, as always.

I get home and park my car. I walk up the stairs and to my apartment door. Let's see. I take out my keys and open the door. I walk through the door. Close it. And right around now Rudy would have jumped out and stuck a needle in my neck. I'm almost glad that Rudy had actually drugged me, it'll give me some hard evidence. I would have been out instantly, and would have dropped my keys. I drop my keys on the floor.

From there, he'd have to drag me out the door. Possibly knocking a book from a table as he passes. I push a book off a table, just like might happen if I was being dragged through my apartment. Very small signs of a struggle, but that's how Rudy works. Any more and it'd be suspicious.

With that I leave my apartment again. I take a bus this time, keeping my head down. I get off near a local park and walk to a pay phone. Alright, acting time. I take a few deep breaths. This'll have to be convincing. What emotions do I needs? Fear, panic, confusion...Would joy be appropriate? I did just escape the clutches for a serial killer.

Alright. Lets do this. I take another deep breath, gathering up all my fake emotions, and dial Deb's number.

"Hello?" She asks. She sounds beaten down, broken. Rudy did hurt her. Not physically, but emotionally.

"Deb!" I gasp with not-entirely-feigned relief. "Thank God you're okay..."I add, allowing a small amount of stress to leak into my voice. I've just found out my sister is alive and well after almost being 'forced' into killing her by a deranged serial killer after all.

"Dex! Is that you?" She sounds happy, relived. Maybe I hurt her emotionally as well when I was seen with Rudy.

"Yeah, it's me", I say, tired now. It's times like these that being a sociopath can be very trying. Normal people are so emotional. I sometimes marvel at it.

"Oh my God. Are you okay? Where are you? Did...Did he hurt you?" She asks question after question, a shrill note of fear in her voice. She doesn't want to say his name. Understandable. I'll try not to say his name either, for her sake.

"No, I'm fine. Just...tired. I'm at the corner of Twelfth street and Dillard. Just, come pick me up?" I ask weakly, insecure and confused. I do just want to go home. I have a lot of thinking to do. The sooner I can get this over with, the better. I want to actually fall into unconsciousness willingly before I forget how.

"Yeah, sure, I'll be right there. Just...Stay!" With that, she hangs up. Well, phase one of extricating myself out of this mess is complete. But Deb won't be my critic. The detectives will be when they mentally poke and probe me for information. I can try to play victim, but that will only get me so far. Still, they might go easy on me, just because I'm a friend.

Doakes won't though. He's the one I have to worry about. He's onto me. He'll follow me and investigate me. He'll be a problem.

And then there's still Rudy. He doesn't seem dangerous, and I don't imagine he'd make a move for a while, but I can't see him staying inactive forever. I need to figure out what to do with him.

This whole game, he's been in control, calling the shots. But now it's like he threw the ball into my court, giving me the lead. I get to choose where we go from here. Problem is I don't know where to go from here. The code is ineffective on this issue.

Deb pulls up in her car, screeching to a frantic stop. It's good to see her safe. I take a step towards the car, but before I can take another one she is out of it and hugging me. Right, she still has emotions that I need to deal with. This day is far from over. After I deal with Deb, I still have to deal with giving my statement. And then probably with more Deb. Long day ahead of me.

"Jesus Dex, I thought you were a goner..." Her voices cracks as she says it. She's crying, loud and messy. She buries her face into my shirt. I hate it when people do that. Still, I'm glad to see that she is really okay.

"Hey, I'm fine." I tell her as I pull her off of me. Some bystanders are staring. I ignore them. "Just...shaken up," I try to comfort her. She looks at me skeptically. "I just want to go home," I try again. She seems to accept it more the second time around. Her eyes dart down to my neck briefly and she frowns, concern flashing over her face. She steps away from me after a moment and sniffs, regaining her composure.

"Well, we still need to call the police. Tell them you're found...", she says in her faked, nonchalant voice. I'm not meeting her emotional level and she's not happy about it. Good thing she's use to this.

It's just me being a typical man, oblivious to my emotions. She's use to it, and anything but would seem out of place. Her eyes dart down to my neck again. I touch it, just to see what she is looking at, but pain radiates from my neck. I hiss and pull my hand away. Bruises. From when I was strangled. Good, it'll help my story.

Deb just frowns at me, tears starting to return. I can only stare. I'm out of emotions. I'm not sure what I'm suppose to be feeling now. She doesn't seem sure either. I'll just have to keep on coasting on my macho manliness. Hopefully she'll buy it.

"What the fuck happened?" she asks. It's time to tell my imaginary tale. And I need to pick up my emotional level if I'm going to pass this off. I open my mouth to try to say something, to start on this far fetched tale, but I can't. I can't summon the emotions to fit it.

"Just call the police so that I can tell them at the same time. I just want it over with."

Deb nods and pulls out her cell phone. Good, she's not demanding an immediate explanation, and she seems to accept my hesitance as normal. She's probably trying to sympathize with me. She may not see any emotion in me, but she believes full heartedly that they exist, and she's betting they are the same as hers. She wanders a few feet away from me while she talks. All things considered, she seems pretty good. Her lover did just reveal himself to be a serial murder without any sort of remorse and then kidnapped her.

She also saw me in the mess. Granted she only saw me defending her, and not me contemplating killing her. What else did she see? I'd like to think Rudy would have clued me in on anything else I'd need to know. He understands that his ass is on the line right next to mine. I have his name, his _real_ name, his history, his location, everything needed to get him on death row by the end of the month. Not that I would, but he doesn't know that.

Hopefully it won't come to that. Hopefully I can remain a victim in this mess, and he can go and do...whatever it is he does.

Deb returns a few minutes later and looks like she has something to say. Did she see something important? Maybe Rudy missed something small.

A chill runs down my spine with my next thought. I saw her open her eyes when I started defending her, but what if she woke up before that? What if she heard our conversation? I try to recall the most incriminating thing said.

And there's a lot of incriminating things said. I practically confessed to being a killer. Please don't know anything Deb. If she knows...I'll have to skip town. Run away and never come back. But maybe she doesn't know. I have to wait and see.

"Dex, what did he want? Some people are saying that..." she starts, but can't finish. What is it Deb? Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to fit my worst case scenario. 'Some people', as in not her. Some people are saying something not flattering about myself or the situation I'm in. I'm safe. No need to skip town.

"Saying what?" But still this might be important. I'm knee deep in a shit storm right now, I can't afford to let anything go unknown. This whole situation is incriminating to myself, I need to be careful.

"Forget it. It's stupid. Just Doakes being a fucking ass again," she doesn't seem willing to tell me.

What is Doakes saying now? Good thing his creditability is in the toilet when it comes to me. It shouldn't be too much of a problem, if I play my cards right. Still, 'some people', implies multiple people. Doakes may not be the only one. I'll have to give my statement just right. There's no good explanation for what all happened, but I think I can get off with a bad one. After all, it's not like I have to know everything. I'm just a dazed and confused victim, unsure of what to make of this all.

I look at Deb. My best bet will be to follow her lead. She really is dazed and confused, unsure of what to make of this all. She just seems...happy though. Happy that I'm found. That's nice, but I don't think that'll help me. She probably tried to push all the shit that Rudy did to her our of her mind by worrying about me. Now that I'm found though, she'll have to start showing her real emotions about this. But that'll be later, and it won't do me any good for me giving my statement.

Because it's time now. My testimony. I can't tell them the truth. Not only just because it would incriminate myself, but also because I can't betray Rudy like that. I think I only chose Deb because it was the passive choice. I couldn't kill Rudy anymore than I could kill Deb. I also couldn't tell on him, which would very likely get him killed.

That's why the whole trip to the station I spend it in silence, adding details to my story, figuring it out. Because I'm risking my ass by doing this too. I cannot get caught lying to the cops. If I get caught, I'm dead in the water. This situation is already incriminating enough. Everything has to be right, fitting together perfectly with Deb's story and Rudy's past record. The detectives will pick my brain clean, and _everything_ has to line up perfectly for me to pull this off.

And so my moment comes. I'm sitting in the little room, waiting to questioned. I'm in the interrogation room, not a good sign. I'm a suspect, not a victim. Which is a bad place for a guilty person to be. Those 'some people' that Deb was talking about must include some higher ups. Doakes alone couldn't get me in this room.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the camera in the room, knowing all my colleagues are watching me. I always knew I'd get in this room, no one is perfect and everyone gets caught someday, but I always figured it'd be because I killed someone, not because I stopped someone from getting killed.

Not that I'm truly concerned. This is an uncomfortable place to be, but it's not dangerous. My story will hold together, I'm fairly certain of that. Worst case scenario at this point is if the higher ups stay suspicious they might watch me. I won't be able to move for a while, but I won't get caught. It'll be uncomfortable, as I said, but not lethal. I couldn't get back to Rudy for a while, but he's not stupid. He won't come to me while the cops are watching me. Still, it's a situation I want to avoid.

All the more reason I need to do this perfectly. I'm not sure who will do my interview, or are they calling it an interrogation? I just hope it's not Doakes. I really hope it's not Doakes, I'll get no leeway with him. Everyone else presumes there are emotions in me, that they are just buried. But Doakes is the only one not so sure about that. That's why I'm hoping for anyone but.

It's Doakes, of course. He oh-so-stoically walks through the door and sits down across from me. Fuck. He stares at me suspiciously. He knows something is up. He won't buy my lies. I look back at the camera, putting a disappointed look on my face. My form of smiting the bastards I call my 'friends' for sending me Doakes. They know he hates me. I hope they feel the guilt I am trying to lay on them.

"Mind telling me what the fuck happened between you and your friend." He starts right off accusing. I turn to him. He already has his own version of how things happened. Not good.

"If you mean the person who kidnapped and tried to kill my sister when you say 'friend', sure," I carefully disarm his accusation, ending it with a glare. I haven't even fully forgiven Rudy for that. Letting Deb go only partially atones for it. It still means that he is dangerous. He regained his senses this time, but there's no telling about next time.

"I went home, but as soon as I entered, I was drugged." I continue. I already set that up. They'll send forensics over to my apartment to check it out. Another piece to my story. "Someone injected me with...something that knocked me out almost instantly.", I say breathlessly, acting shaken and unnerved just at the thought. It's the typical response when someone breaks into your apartment, right? "When I woke up I was duct taped to a chair in some old house. Rudy was there, with a gun pointed at me. He told me I had to do something for him, and that afterwards he'd let me go." I lean back and look off to the side, faking pain and fear. Doakes may not buy it, but this is being taped. Everyone else is watching, and they'll buy it. Hopefully including the higher ups that put me in this room to begin with.

"And? What was this 'favor' that Cooper wanted?" He's skeptical. I'm not convincing him at all, but in the big picture this may be a good thing. Poor, little Dexter is being harassed by big, bad, mean Doakes.

"To kill Deb," I whisper, filling my voice is pain and fear. Really it's just a raspy whisper, but people read deep and powerful in emotions it. Emotions are mostly displayed in tones. Easy to fake.

"He wanted you to kill Deb?" He doesn't buy it for a second. I admit, the idea is almost laughable, but I've learned one thing over the last few months; the police have no idea what my brother is like. If they could honestly believe he was Neil Perry, the man who stuffs road kill, they can believe this.

"He said more after that, but I was just so shocked and scared, I couldn't pay attention. He led me outside to some shed. Deb was in there." I stop talking abruptly. I can't make it seem like this is easy for me to say. A traumatic experience, it's painful to recall. Or it would be if I was a normal person.

Deb woke up. I remember that. She saw me catch Rudy's hand and wrestle with him. He probably drugged her again shortly after. I have to work with that, our stories need to align.

"Cut the bullshit and continue," Doakes is so good at taking statements. I can just see him telling that to a new widow.

I sigh a weary sigh and follow his instructions. "He gave me a knife. I didn't know what to do. He had a gun pointed at me. I told him I refuse, that I couldn't kill Deb. He yelled and tried to stab her himself, but I didn't let him. I wrestle the knife out of his hand. The gun must of fell along with it too. But he got me in a head lock. He strangled me until I passed out. Then I just woke up on a park bench", an unlikely story, but Deb really did wake up on a park bench, why can't I? Besides, it's not like I'm suppose to be able to know the inner workings of a serial killer.

Doakes still doesn't buy it. It's okay, I knew he wouldn't. Everyone else will though. To them, all of Rudy's actions are random. They are missing vital pieces of the puzzle. My story may be weird, but isn't this all? Some serial killer just randomly freezes and kills women? Gives us fingers tips painted all different colors, kidnaps a night-watch, cuts of his limbs and displays them in public? Dates a cop and lets the world know that he kidnapped her, willfully giving up his entire social life? Without the clues he gave me, I'd think he was stark raving mad.

But he's not. Everything was carefully planned, laid out just so. He spent a long time and a lot of effort on this. He was right, it was justifiable for him to lose his temper. Considering all of this, I'm surprised he was able to rein himself in and not kill Deb. His words come back me. ' I want to be brothers again'.

It's sweet, noble even. Doesn't make him any less dangerous.

Doakes just stars as me, long and hard. Finally, he leans in close, and whispers too softly for the microphone to hear.

"I know that is a big steaming pile of bullshit. I know you fucking know exactly where he is. I know that you are covering for him. I know that you are doing this willingly." I just stare, trying not to look too alarmed. I have nothing else to do. Doakes knows too much. He sees straight through me.

Doakes is officially a problem.


	3. Chapter 3

Doakes doesn't stop at his blatant accusation. He continues and gives me a proper interrogation, if said proper investigator loathed said proper suspect with the fires of hell itself. Questioning every single word that leaves my mouth, trying to find a loop hole. But I'm not an idiot. The number one mistake that people make in my place is knowing too much.

An innocent man will say 'I don't know' as often as they do know. Victims are just that; victims. They don't know what happened. They don't understand why it happened and they miss all sorts of details. It's just how the human mind works. Trauma can disorientate the memory, as I had told Angel weeks ago, when Doakes was under suspicion (less than I find myself under, I note, annoyed).

A guilty man, on the other hand, will give a proper and full answer to every single question. A lie, most likely, but they claim to know things that they shouldn't know. Always having a perfect and smooth answer to explain any and every possible question. Thought out and carefully worded, as though they are reading from a Teleprompter. Mistake number one. And I've learned the common mistakes from years of watching.

Mistake number two, they also try to act calm. Sometimes it's obvious they're scared, sometimes not, but they always try to hide it. They don't want the police to know they are scared. It's like they believe the only reason to be scared is if they are guilty. Innocent people don't view it like this. They feel that they have nothing to hide, including that the interrogation is scaring them. They show their fear. There is a man in your face yelling at you, saying that you're going to jail for a long time. Guilty or no, it frightens people. It's suppose to; that's why people do it.

Point is, guilty people try too hard to look innocent, and it shows. They try to act normal. Problem is acting normal right after your wife was murdered is not that normal in the big picture. The thing about me, though, is that I'm always stoic. These are people know that. They know that I'm not an emotional guy, to say the least. I can handle the 'I don't know' response fine. I'm good at that stuff. Saying only what I'm suppose to know. It's the easy part of this. Especially with no emotions to distract me.

But my lack of emotions also has a downfall. I can't try too hard at not trying too hard. I don't crack under pressure. Ever. There have been many situations that would pull out the very worst of people, make then lose their lids, but I handle those situations with ease. Everyone here knows that. So I have to blend just the right amount of exasperation, anger, and fear. Not too much, not too little. It has to match my already known personality.

The thing is, the persona that is Dexter Morgan is being put to the ultimate stress test. Everyone has a breaking point. I do too, of course, but my real breaking point usually leads me to kill someone in a blind rage. That's why the persona I constructed has to break before the real thing. As good as killing Doakes would feel, it's just not beneficial with a camera in the room. Not to mention he doesn't fit the code.

Still, I've been in here for an hour now, and Doakes is starting to wear down my last nerve. Even the toughest of people crack eventually. And I need to crack soon, before I honestly crack and snap Doakes' neck. Just a matter of how. Could I manage to fake tears? Unlikely, I haven't cried since I was three, and only then it was because my mother was cut up into pieces in front of me. I could do anger, but that's dangerous. I want to seem like the victim, not the bad guy. Besides, I'm under inspection from higher ups. Showing them my ugly side would only incriminate myself further. I'll only fake anger if I'm about to unleash my real anger. As a last resort.

"Officer Morgan claims Cooper lead her out of a car and into a fairly large building, yet _you _claim that she was in a shed, which is typically small. Doesn't quite match." Doakes says as he leans in close, standing over the table. He's trying to scare me, but it's just pissing me off.

I sigh and rub my face, showing my weariness and exasperation. "It was a large shed ," I offer, and it's a perfectly logical explanation.

Doakes knew that could be the case before he even asked the question. He's been doing that a lot. He can't find any real flaws in my story, so he pokes in places, trying to make an inconsistency appear. I know this move, he's trying to make me doubt myself, go back and change my story. Get me caught red-handed in a lie. It's insulting really. Who does he take me for? It's like I haven't been watching these interviews with the rest of the Peanut Gallery.

"You said it was night when you woke up in the house. Officer Morgan said she reached her final destination during the day," Doakes continues with the accusations. Really, like I can't figure that out. I lean back in my chair and rub my face.

"I think I got home about...three in the afternoon. I didn't really check. I was drugged and it must have been our for several hours," I explain. Like it's such a big mystery. I hope he gives me a harder one next.

I bend my neck, showing off my bruises and the injection mark from when I was forcefully knocked out. I've been continually trying to use my marks as evidence for my story, but I can't be too obvious about it. Only a guilty man would try to rub it in his interviewer's nose, using it as his sole proof of innocence. I'm smarter than that, but Doakes just doesn't seem to care. He saw the marks, and promptly brushed them off. But that's just Doakes. There is nothing I could ever do to convince him that I'm innocent. It's the rest of the station that I need to convince.

Doakes stands straight and walks around, pacing.

"What I don't get is the timing. Officer Morgan was found at approximately four in the morning. But you were found closer to nine in the morning. That means there is a five hour gap between Deb's release and you getting out. Mind explaining what happened in those five hours?" He questions. And a good one too. Pity I haven't forgotten mistake number one, knowing too much. Just how would I know what happened during those five hours if I was unconscious?

I look down and bite my lip. "I don't know. I don't want to think about it," because it would normally be a very distressing thought. Alone, sleeping in the presence of a deranged sociopath. Very frightening. Good thing it never happened. Well, it kind of did, but my brother wouldn't harm me. He may harm everyone around me, but not me. Strange how safe that almost makes me feel.

Doakes seems to get the idea that this isn't working. He sits back down and looks at some papers. Another intimidation technique. The quiet unsettles people. He flips paper, making a small sound. I just frown and look off to the side. Exactly what an innocent man would do.

Doakes is so plain and ordinary. He's doing this interview by the books. Hopefully his next plan will be more fun. Then maybe I won't have to fake a break down if his questioning doesn't get too tough. I look up at the camera again, weariness clear on my face. I might have to anyway. A normal person would be getting pretty stressed right around now. I sign and look down, running a hand through my hair. Either way, I can't look like I'm fine.

"You always know what psycho killers are thinking..." He starts off. I look up, interested. "What do you think Cooper was thinking?" Doakes asks in a calm voice.

I look at him, surprised. Definitely a new take on this. I'm uneasy, I'm not sure where he is going with this. And if he keeps that sweet tone I can't use my out. Not that Doakes is even capable of using that tone for much more than a few minutes.

I remove my hand from my hair and open my mouth. I close it a second later, appearing to be at a lose of words. "I...I don't know," I say softly. I'll play along with Doakes. "If he wanted me to...to kill Deb, then maybe..."I can't appear to know too much. Mistake number one again, and I'm not falling for it. Is that what Doakes is trying at? Then he's out of luck. "He could have wanted Deb to suffer, or maybe me to suffer. It's hard to say..."uncertainty laces my voice. It's a generic answer, something that they could have easily figured out on their own, and most likely already have.

"You sure about that?" Doakes asks in that warm voice of his. I squirm in my chair. He's getting to me. Is that what he wants? To throw me off, confuse me with his sudden change and try to catch me off guard? I won't fall for that either.

"No," I say and I give a small, strained laugh. "Look, I know I usually can tell what people like him are thinking, but he's...different." Is Doakes trying to question me in areas I didn't already plan out my answers for? I'm good at thinking fast, I think I can handle this. What's so hard to believe about me not being the perfect detective?

"Different how?" His tone is slightly different, sharper. No longer nice and sweet. It's still not harsh enough for me to fake a breakdown though. Is this intentional? Did he see my next move coming?

"He's...erratic," because he is. At least to the police force it seems like he is. "Spontaneous and random. It's like...there is no reason," I end it with a whisper and furrowed brow. It's a complete lie, the exact opposite in fact. But it'll throw the cops off of both our trails. They'll think that I'm innocent and that they can't predict any of his moves. If they buy it, that is.

Doakes leans back, thinking about this. It's a perfect answer, Doakes, don't lie. Did I even manage to convince you? Or did I just dazzle you with my improv abilities?

"So...he kidnapped both you and Officer Morgan to try to get you to kill Morgan with no motive." Well, when Doakes puts it that way; it sounds stupid. "Doesn't make a whole lot of sense," he comments in that voice of his, kind and loving, with a minor undertone of deceit.

I look at the table with a blank stare. I slowly shake my head. If he thinks he has me, he's dead wrong. "Does any of this make sense? Freezing prostitutes, displaying body limbs...Everything he does is symbolic, but random," and Doakes knows it's true. "He's...insane," I end my little interpretation as if I've come across a great truth blind to us until this very moment.

"Symbolic. Do you think he wanted you to kill Deb for some symbolic reason?"

Yes. I know so, he practically told me. I can't tell that to Doakes though. In fact, I think that I need to change the subject.

I run my hand through my hair again. "I don't know," I mutter softly, looking back down at the table. "I just don't know."

I don't like where Doakes is going with this. I may not be able to fake an outburst, but I may be able to fake an emotional shut-down. It's been a long day. They can't hold me much longer without having any real evidence that I belong here anyway. Still, I want out now. I put my face in my hands and sigh. Your move, Doakes. Try to interrogate me now that I look like I'm about ready to break down. There's only so much leeway you get when interrogating people on a hunch.

Doakes doesn't say anything though. Plotting his next move? He doesn't move either, he just sits there. I keep my head down and start to run both my hands through my hair. A messy set of hair shows a distraught mind. Some higher ups may have put me here, but after two hours of this stuff, they must be about ready to let me out.

Just when I think I've won, Doakes roughly pulls me up and out of my seat. He slams me against the wall. Hard. I cringe at the pain.

"Now listen to me you mother fucker! I know you are guilty! I know you are covering his ass! Talk damnit!" He rages as he shakes me, my head colliding with the wall several times. That hurts. And Doakes needs a breath mint.

But I need to act scared and shocked. Some policemen run in and pull Doakes off of me. I slide the floor, wide eyed, my breath shaky. Doakes is being dragged out of the room, screaming and yelling about my guilt like a rabid dog. I really hope they put him down. My sister comes running in.

"Oh my God, Dex! Are you alright?" She kneels down next to me and looks me over. I have to bit back anger to stop from yelling. I take a deep breath to control my anger. I don't like it when people hit me. I really, truly don't. In fact, I hate it so much, I'm going to have to take another deep breath to keep from chasing after Doakes and seeing how he likes to be hit.

My teeth are clenched and my hands are balled in fists. Deb must misinterpret this as pain, because she goes running out of the room and asking for a medic. Great, now I have to deal with some doctors too.

A few more deep breaths, and my rage is under control. Some guy in a blue uniform follows Deb into the room.

"I'm fine, just a little bit bruised" I say, trying to get the medic away. I don't feel like being poked and prodded. Doakes just spent the last two hours mentally examining me and my story, I don't want my next two hours to be spent being physically examined. Or if they send me to the hospital. Everyone will want to visit me and I'll have to smile and pretend to be happy to see them. All the longer before I get me-time.

"I'm just going to feel your head a little bit," the man replies gently. It's not even a question. Don't patients have to consent to treatment and examinations? He puts a rubber glove on and starts poking my head. "Tell me if it hurts." He instructs. He pokes in a systematic manner, not letting any spot go unchecked. I have to respect his diligence. He hits a tender spot, and I flinch, dragging the hiss that tries to sliver out of my mouth back in.

"Did that hurt?" He asks, lightly brushing the spot again. I hate being touched.

"Yeah, a little bit. It's just tender, that's all." As hard as I work to reassure him, he persists.

"I'm not so sure about that. I'm going to ask you a series of question. First, what is two plus two?" Great, he's checking to see if I have a concussion. Which means I get to answer a series of basic question and do some simple actions. It's just like the first grade again. Boring.

"Four," I respond dully. Next question so I can get this guy out of my place.

"Who is the president?"

"George W. Bush." I pass the memory test.

"What is the capital of Florida?"

"Tallahassee."

"Alright, very good. Now I want you follow the light with your eyes." He instructs, grabbing a small flash light. He shines the bright light into my eyes, and slowly moves it back and forth. I squint, but still follow the light.

"Very good. Now I want to you to stand and tell me if you feel light headed, nauseas, or if you have to sit back down."

Good; I'm almost done. Hopefully he'll just tell Deb to keep an eye on me and leave. I stand easily.

"I feel fine." I say. It's just a bump on my head. I've done worse to myself opening kitchen cabinets.

"That's good. I just want you to perform one more test. Stand on one leg," he instructs. I reluctantly follow his directions and stand on one leg. Sooner I do this, sooner it's done. "And hop a few times for me," and I do. I hop twice. That's all he's getting. I'm done with him. I put my foot down and just stand, staring at him.

"Alright, you're fine." He says, and he turns around. He looks as Deb. "Watch him for the next twenty-four hours. If you notice any confusion, slurred speech, or impaired motor skills, get him to a hospital," the medic says before leaving the room.

"Holy fucking shit. I can't believe Doakes just fucking attacked you!" Deb exclaims oh-so-eloquently.

"I can. He's had it out for me for a long time. Who let him interview me anyway?" I would like to know what higher ups are among the 'some people' category.

"The new Lieutenant, Pascal. Doakes was talking shit about you and she actually fucking bought it. Thought that you worked with..." she trails off with a pained look on her face. She has touched the wound that Rudy left. She just tries to ignore it, as she has done before, concerning herself with me. Denial is the first step in the grieving process. Hopefully she'll take her time on that step, I don't want to deal with her while dealing with Doakes.

"So Pascal is really stepping up to the plate..." I trial off. How much hatred is acceptable for me to have for her?

"Yeah. Everyone else said that it's impossible that you helped him, but apparently she thought that Doakes made sense."

Not a good sign. I presumed that Doakes based his suspicions on me because I'm a 'creepy psycho', as he likes to call me, but if a neutral stranger believed him...Maybe everyone else disbelieves him just because they feel loyal to me.

"What exactly is Doakes saying about me?" I need to know just how much of a problem Doakes is.

Deb looks off to the side and bites her lip. Another bad sign. "He says that, well..."I stare critically at Deb, willing her to continue. "I'm sorry, I just...I can't talk about this right now," Deb finishes. She looks down, unable to meet my eyes.

I hope her hesitance has more to do with the fact that her lover just tried to kill her and not that her brother might have helped said murderous lover.

"Hope this isn't too much of a bad time, but I would like to ask a few questions, Dexter." LaGuerta says from the doorway of the room. I stare at her, then back to Deb. It'd be nice to know if she is one of the 'some people' that have been accusing me. "Don't worry, I just want to question you on a few of the finer details. Get our facts straight, to see if you saw anything important," she continues.

It doesn't seem like she is one of the 'some people'. Good, at least she won't be too critical when she interviews me.

"Sure. Better do it now before I forget anything," I say, sitting back down in my chair. Deb just nods and walks out of the room.

"Alright, lets start at the beginning..." LaGuerta trails off, sitting down in the other chair and getting a pen and paper ready. "You said he drugged you when you first walked into the apartment. Could you explain that further? Like how soon, where did he come from, what was he wearing, stuff like that." She asks, pen at the ready.

This is where the real challenge begins.

I lean back and remember the two common mistakes. Knowledge and emotion, they both have to be played just right. I sigh and act like I'm thinking, trying to recall the memory that doesn't exist.

"Well, I walked in and everything seemed normal...I turned to close the door. As soon as it shut, I was about to go to my kitchen to get a snack...And that's when he drugged me. From behind- I didn't hear a thing." I say as I open my eyes. LaGuerta is writing this all down.

"Alright...Next you say that you woke up taped to a chair in an old house?"

"Yeah...The walls were a faded yellow, and it was mostly empty. Just a couple of chairs and a table", I explain. I'm trying my best not to give anything away, but there's still this twisting in my gut telling my I'm betraying my brother.

"Were there any windows?"

"Yes, one. But I couldn't see anything outside, it was too dark."

"What was Cooper wearing? Was he standing or sitting? Did he move around?" She questions. Great, I'm going to be in here for another two hours. Good thing I have years of practice constructing solid stories.

I answer the questions with as much detail as is reasonable, acting traumatized whenever necessary. I can't forget the two common mistakes. It goes on for a tedious hour before, finally, it looks like we are done. She sets down her papers and caps her pen. Freedom at last.

"I know that Doakes already asked you this, but could you try to figure out Cooper's motive?" LaGuerta asks. Looks like I made it through the questioning without slipping up. "Why wouldn't he kill you both?" She wants an answer, and a good one. I sit back, thinking. What would be a good lie? Rudy probably won't move to kill Deb, but just to be safe, I should push for protective detail. My brother can get very devious.

"He wants to kill Deb, but he wants to do it right...We should put protective detail on her. Rudy isn't done. He'll probably try something new, so we need to keep our eyes open." I explain. I want protective detail on Deb, but I can't afford being tailed by a bunch of suits with guns myself.

"Right. We've already put protective detail on her. And you think he won't go after you?"

"No. It's Deb that he's interested in, not me."

"Well, it's Pascal's choice, and she seems to be listening to Doakes." Deb may be too traumatized to talk about Doakes' theory, but LaGuerta isn't. This could be my perfect chance to learn just what Doakes has been saying.

"What _is_ Doakes saying?" I ask carefully. LaGuerta stares at me with an apologetic look.

"He's saying a lot of things. He's just doing his job and investigating all possibilities." Of course. LaGuerta is Doakes' old partner. She's going to make excuses for him. That's okay, she can try to justify all she wants, I still need to know.

"And what is the possibility that made Doakes interrogate me?" LaGuerta looks off to the side, not wanting to say.

"He has this theory...I'm surprised the Pascal even listened to him. It's a hell of a theory," she stops and looks at me. I nod slowly, urging her to continue. The fact that Doakes has a radical theory doesn't exactly answer my question. LaGuerta sighs and continues." He says that Cooper was focusing on you the whole time. His reasoning behind this is that your sister had complained to him several times that Cooper was more interested in you than in her."

Damn. Doakes did find some evidence that goes against my story and idea. And convinced the new Lieutenant of it too. This isn't looking good. Still, it's a big leap from saying that I'm the focus of Rudy's attention to I helped him. There has to be more to it.

"There's more, isn't there?" I push. I need to know the whole theory, and just how much of a threat Doakes is. LaGuerta looks down for a moment, then back up to me. She doesn't want to say this.

"Officer Morgan claims she saw you wrestle a knife out of Cooper's hand. Her story pretty much follows yours, he got you in a head lock and strangled you until you were out. But once you passed out, she says she heard Cooper apologize to you and kneel down to check your pulse." She explains.

So Deb saw a moment of brotherly affection. Definitely doesn't help my situation, but it isn't too incriminating. After all, Rudy is insane, no telling why he would apologize. And what's wrong with checking my pulse? He was simply gauging the situation, seeing if I was dead or not.

"Doakes says that he saw you in a shipping yard, looking for your sister there." More facts. That's not good; Doakes is basing his theory on facts. I can manipulate my co-workers' feelings, but for how long? How long will Doakes have to talk about his ideas before the facts sink in and I'm fully pushed under the spotlight?

"Doakes' theory is that you are somehow related to the Ice Truck Killer."

My heart skips a beat when she says 'related'. I know she just means it in the abstract sense, but if they decide to run a DNA test...That'll be really bad.

"That you weren't drugged, but went there willingly. That Cooper only dated your sister to get to you."

Doakes is a serious issue. He's piecing this all together. My mouth goes dry and I feel the need to fight back, to say that Doakes is wrong and I'm not guilty. Good thing I've never had an issue of lying through my teeth.

I point to my neck. "Yeah. I was willingly drugged and strangled," I try to joke.

It's probably out of place. Normal people don't joke about what I supposedly went through. LaGuerta just smiles and looks down, clearly not convinced. What happened last night is a mystery. To them anyway. Doakes' theory doesn't line up with reality as perfectly as it should, but mine isn't exactly perfect either. We both have evidence and little details that fly in the face of our stories. In the big picture, some marks like these could be faked. Not painlessly, but it could be done. My biggest piece of evidence is starting to mean less and less to them.

LaGuerta isn't done yet either. There's more to the theory, it's written on her face. The worse has yet to come. She leans forward and looks me dead in the eyes.

"He also says that he wouldn't have gone through all this trouble unless he felt a connection for you. And the way he would ever feel a connection to anyone is if you were a killer too." Her words cut me, forcing me to realize just how dangerous this situation is. Doakes has a semi-reasonable theory that ends with me being a serial killer. And he has the Lieutenant on his side too. I'm not a victim, I'm a suspect. Doakes' idea takes several leaps of faith, but they are leaps people seem willing to make.

I lean back and sigh, rubbing my face. This is not good. Very, very bad even.

"I know, it's a crazy theory. Don't worry though; Pascal is really only humoring him. She says she wants to 'explore all the possibilities', but I think she's satisfied with this interrogation." I look back at LaGuerta. I'm not as royally fucked as I thought. If people don't believe Doakes yet, then I can shut him up before people start to really listen. I can still get out of this.

"Yeah, Hell of a theory." I laugh slightly. I have to seem normal right now. "If you don't mind, I'd just like to go home." I stand and make a gesture to the door.

"Sure. Forensics came and went, found nothing important. Go get some sleep", she orders. I move to leave. "Dexter?" She continues. I turn to look at her, half way to the door. "Are you sure you don't want protective detail?" I smile at her.

"No, I don't think he will try anything for a while. And even then, I think it's Deb that needs protection." I say. I turn to leave without waiting for a response. I need to get home and figure this out. I go for the elevator and push the button. I look around cautiously. I really don't want to chat to one of my co-workers. I don't have the energy to fake more emotions. I tap my foot and look down. Come on, come on...

There's a ding and I rush into the elevator, jamming the ground floor button as hard as possible. So close to freedom...

"Hold the door!" Masuka says, running my way. Great. I stretch out my hand, preventing the doors from closing. I was so close...Still, Masuka is selfish, he probably won't take too much of an interest in my recent fake-abduction.

He slows to a walk and enter the elevator with me. I let the doors close; we are alone. He's quiet for a moment.

"So...you okay?" He asks with false flippancy.

"Long day. I just want to go home." I reply. Come on Vince, be selfish. I don't want you to try to comfort me right now. Surprisingly, he seems to sense this and nods, staying silent. Good.

The door dings again and I rush out. I automatically reach into my pocket to get my car keys out. Only I don't have my keys. Or my car. I was 'kidnapped' when I got home, so that's where both my keys and my car is.

I get my cell phone out and call a cab. I don't go back into the building. I don't want anyone in there feeling sorry for me and offering to take me out for drinks or try to comfort me some other way.

The cab comes and takes me home. I get inside, glad to see everything as I left it. I didn't lock my door, and Miami is a big city.

Doakes. My little problem. He's been a source of minor amusement from time to time, but mostly just a thorn in my side. Always bugging me, calling me on who I really am. No one listen and had no reason to. Even Doakes himself didn't really believe I was a killer before.

But now he just went from thorn in my side to a gun pressed to my head. A real threat. His theory takes quite a few leaps of faith, but it's not wild. It puts me under the microscope, and that's not a good place for people like me to be. I work well under the radar, but when I get inspected, inconstancies start showing up. They'll interview Rita. She'll talk about my late nights 'working', and they'll find out that those night don't match my real late nights. That I lie about what I'm doing late at night.

They might check my credit card record. They'll see that I withdraw a hundred bucks every now and then that just seems to immediately disappear. They ask some stores if they recognize me, and if so, what do I buy. From there they'll learn that every few weeks I but massive amounts of plastic wrap and coverings. They might even align when I buy them with nights right before I 'work late'.

And then if they get a search warrant...The blood slides. I look at my AC from my spot on the couch. If they get a search warrant they might not look there, but if Doakes gets a chance to search my place, he'll tear it apart. He'll find them. And if my place will be searched, he'll make sure he's the one to do it. And then the tools. Blood slides of missing people with sharp butchering tools. They could run DNA tests and find out that the blood in my slides belong to people who went missing on the nights that I 'work late'.

I would be thrown in jail. The trial would be a joke. No self-respecting lawyer would take my case. I'd be given a state assigned lawyer. The best that could be done would be an insanity plea. But I'm too neat and orderly to be insane. They'll see that and deny the plea. I'll be put on death row.

They wouldn't drag things out, I'd be in the chair within a few years. A few brutal, violent years. I'm not meant for jail. I'm a very civilized monster. I'll be chewed up and spit out, right into the electrocution chair. A simple flip of the switch, and Dexter Morgan is pronounced dead by a doctor waiting and prepared.

I can't let that happen. Now only one question remains. How to shut up Doakes?


	4. Chapter 4

Doakes is a tricky problem indeed. Just today, he's called me a killer twice and a 'fucking creep' five times. I've had to resort to staying in my corner to avoid him. Usually I wouldn't mind his name-calling, but he's packing reason and logic now. It's no longer a mild hunch, but full blown suspicion. I watch Doakes walk into the break room. He's tall and muscular, graceful in his movements. Lethal. I look at my desk. I still need to finish my blood report. I start working on that to distract myself.

Despite Brian's encouragements, I can't just leave the Code. The Code is how I function, it's a part of me. And part of the Code is my standards for victims. Doakes is a military man, violent and trigger ready, but as hard as I search, he doesn't meet my standards. I can't kill Doakes. Silence by death is out of the option.

Paul was a problem too. Rita's ex-husband needed to be dealt with. He didn't meet my standards, just like Doakes. I ended up framing him, sending him to prison. It wasn't hard, a druggie out on parole. I knocked him out and stuck a needle in his arm. They sent him right back to jail. Worked then, but my hopes of it working again are dwindling. Doakes has no record of drug use, so even if I do manage to frame him properly for that, the judge would go easy on him and probably just send him to rehab for a few months.

No, the only frame job that would stick to him is murder. Doakes is armed and trigger happy; he's already been under suspicion. But there is still the matter of finding a person on his hit-list that also meets my standards. Sadly, there is only one person that qualifies, and that's me. Even if I could manage to plant the evidence, I couldn't kill anyone to complete it. You can't do a frame job without a crime to pin on the other person.

And that leaves me up shit creek without a paddle. I can't kill him or lock him up. Even setting aside all logistics, I can't come up with anything. Sending him away to some third world country will keep him busy for a week, then he'll just come back, pointing fingers more than ever.

An officer walks by, staring intently at me. What's worse yet is that Doakes' constant accusations are starting to stick. Mostly just lower officers, and only then they are slightly wary of me, but it's just the beginning. The more Doakes' rambles on about me, the more people believe him. I need to deal with him quickly and without raising suspicion. If I made Doakes' go away forever, it could be the last piece of evidence needed to convince people. I'd have to make whatever my plot may be look like an accident, or at least not related to me.

I lean back in my chair and sigh. It's times like this that I wish I could bend the Code, just a bit. I could easily kill him in a nondescript manner. But I know I can't. The Code is very precise. Harry always emphasized that my victims have to be guilty. Doakes isn't, not really. There is simply no way of getting around that. No matter how hard I close my eyes and wish, Doakes will still be innocent when I open them.

And then there is Brian. My riddle of a brother. I don't imagine he'll just slink off to whatever dark corner he came from. He's still out there, his very existence is tempting me to break the Code. He'd want me to throw the Code right out the window and kill Doakes. I close my eyes and sigh again. But I can't do that. No matter how frustrating it is to Brian, or how inconvenient it is to me, the Code cannot be broken. The Code says no innocent blood can be split by my blade.

I snap my eyes open and sit straight. No, I can't spill innocent blood by my blade, but what about by my word? Brian doesn't have a code. He's free to kill as he wills. My code doesn't say that I _have_ to stop him from killing innocent people. There are a lot of killers in Miami. It's not like I _have_ to choose to kill Brian. The Code tells me to kill killers, but it doesn't say anymore than that. It's my choice what killer to kill.

If I befriend another killer, one without a code, and I might mention that a certain cop is getting dangerously close to the truth. It's not like I'm responsible for what my killer friend does. Besides, if I get busted, Brian gets busted. He would have a motive to kill Doakes on his own.

Alright, so it might be violating the spirit of the Code, but not the Code itself. And besides, isn't sending Paul to jail violating the spirit of the Code as well? And rule number one of the Code is 'Don't get caught'. I think the actual words of the first rule of the code gives me permission to violate the spirit of the later part of the Code. And it's not like there are any other options. I'm backed into a corner here.

I look around. Doakes is still in the break room, it seems. Time to move. Doakes is an immediate problem that needs to be dealt with right now. The longer I wait, the more time he has to convince people that I'm guilty. I stand and grab my report. I go into Pascal's office, dropping my blood report on her desk.

"Do you mind if I take long lunch? I have some personal stuff I need to deal with," I ask quickly, forcing a slight hope into my voice. Brian said he'd be in our old house. There's no reason why he'd leave. After all he went through, he's not going to just walk away.

Pascal looks at me, a little bit surprised. "Sure. I can see that you finished your report," she says, picking up the papers and thumbing through them.

"Yeah, thanks. Bye." I murmur, before rushing out of her office. I really don't need Doakes finding out that I'm gone. I can't have him ask what 'personal stuff' I'm dealing with. But if all goes as planned, he won't have time to. Brian has nothing to do, he doesn't have to work killing Doakes into his schedule. And he will kill Doakes, if not for me, for himself. We are in this thing together. We fall together.

Doakes is still in the break room. My first piece of luck for what seems like years. I hurry across the floor and to the elevators. I look around. Still no Doakes. The doors ding open, welcoming me into freedom. I'm on the road in less than three minutes from there. Back to 1235 Mangrove Drive.

I park in front of the house, and just like last time, I have to stare. I've almost forgotten this is real. Over the past few days, my past has drifted into the abstract. Far away and untouchable. An interesting fact, but nothing more. Not relevant to life.

But seeing this house, the physical manifestation of my past, it brings it all back. Along with the excitement of having a brother. But I can't fall for that again. I got swept up in the excitement last time and I lost my wits. I almost broke the Code in the worst of ways. I almost killed my own sister. I won't make the same mistakes.

I step out of my car and walk slowly through the yard. The palm trees where we played Hide-and-Seek with mother brings back the rush of having a brother. I look off to the side where a large bush grows wildly. A memories comes rushing back to me.

_Little Brian is digging around in the bush, only his legs showing. He grunts and moans in pain from time to time, but keeps moving, looking. I'm by his side, saying "Get it, Biney!" Brian's legs disappear deeper into the shrub, along with louder hisses of pain. Until, finally, my brother reemerges. Brian climbs out of the bush completely, a small red ball tightly clenched in his scratched and bloody hand._

I blink and look away, the memory disappearing but not fading from my mind. Me and my brother were close as children. I can see why he tracked me down. It couldn't have been easy. I had a hard enough time even with all of his helpful hints.

But enough about the past. I need to focus on the present and how to live to see the future.

I walk into the house. I make sure that the door makes sound as I close it. Sneaking up on a serial killer is not a good idea. Ever.

"Brian", I call out. I wouldn't want him to think I was someone else and try to kill me. But there is no response. I look around the room. It's where I woke up the second time, the living room. The TV is still there, though it's off. I walk closer to it. Another memories hits me.

_Me and Brian sit in front of the TV, eating sandwiches in our pajamas. I have on Spiderman pajamas. Brian has Scooby Doo. Bugs Bunny is on the TV. I look down at my sandwich, displeased. I turn to Brian and reach for his. "I want Biney's!", I demand with all the righteousness of the most spoiled of children. Brian just smiles though, and we trade sandwiches. We both go back to watching the TV._

I don't try to push the memory out of my mind this time. Instead I embrace it. How we use to be. I run my finger across the TV. I wonder if we'll be like that again? I won't demand his food, of course, but if we will be close again. I'm reaching out to him. Sure, he's just a solution, but he so much more than that also. He's my brother. I'm not sure where we'll go from here. He'll help me, but then what? He can't stay in Miami and I can't leave Miami.

That idea doesn't sit well with me. I'm not sure if it's because I'll miss me brother, or if I long for more closure than that, but it can't end like that. He can't just wave good-bye and disappear.

Even though that'd be the easy solution. I wouldn't have to deal with him, he'd just leave. But he's not a problem. An anomaly, sure, but not something that needs to go away. I sigh. It's the same problem as before. I'd have to make a choice between Deb and Brian, my old life or a new one. And I can't leave my old life. This is all just willful thinking. Brian is temporary.

But that doesn't mean I can't take advantage while I can. He's a limited time only solution to my immediate problem. The two go hand in hand. And, after the favor, who's to say I can't spend quality time with my brother before he leaves town? Cook up some steaks, throw back a few beers, it'll be just like last time, except better. He's a danger to Deb, but if I keep him pacified and away from Deb, it should be fine.

I turn away from the TV and continue on my hunt. I can't be worrying about the little things right now. Doakes is posing a serious threat to my life, and I need to find Brian.

"Brian?", I call out again. Still no response. I wander around the house, searching for him. He doesn't seem to be here.

He's not in the shed either. He's no where to be found. A pit forms in my stomach. He can't be gone. Not yet.

"Brian!" I call out, louder. Still nothing, of course.

Did he leave? He said he'd be here. Maybe I took too long getting here. Jesus, if he left...

My disappointment at losing my brother quickly gives way to Doakes. Then there goes my solution. The _only _solution. Brian can't be gone. But if he is, then what? I can't deal with Doakes any other way. I could try to frame him for killing some random guy who meets the Code. But Doakes wouldn't know him, it's be suspicious. I already checked Doakes' contacts. Even presuming that I could get around him to frame him, there's no one that he would truly be suspected of killing, excluding myself, of course. I'd have to pull some major strings, do a lot of running around.

Doakes would catch me. He's already suspicious enough, but with him watching me as much as he does, he'd catch me if I tried anything too elaborate.

That doesn't leave very many options. I could sit there, looking as innocent as possible, and hope that Doakes' theory stops spreading. Wishful thinking. He's convincing people that something is amiss left and right. I've already check what sort of evidence they could find. Enough evidence. And that is too much. I'd be sitting there, looking innocent from a jail cell. Much less effective.

That'd leave me with only one other option. Skip town. I never thought it'd come to that-that I'd be forced to run. Where would I go? What would I do? It's bitter irony. I choose Deb over Brian, but I still may lose her. And Brian. I'd lose them both. I'd be alone.

I can't have that. My instincts kick in. I need to know what is going. If Brian really left. I need evidence. The tables are completely bear. The house is spotless. Did he really leave? I stop to think. I have an unusual advantage. I know my brother, at least somewhat. He's a neat freak, like me. The neat tables mean nothing. Either way, he wouldn't leave a mess on the tables. I won't find anything out of place or just laying around. I have to look in respective containers. I look in the fridge. It's almost empty. Out gathering supplies perhaps? I hope so.

Aside from the empty fridge, which really means nothing, I have no idea where he is. But he said he'd be here. Alright, looking at it rationally, either he is out getting supplies, or he jumped town. If he jumped town, I'm left with two choices. Waiting this Doakes situation out, hoping it all just blows over, or skipping town myself. I'm not going to skip town tonight, I'd wait a few weeks, see just how convincing Doakes is. Either way, I'm left waiting for a while. I'll leave a note for Brian. If he gets it; great, problem solved. I'd be able to wait for his response. No matter what I do, I'm left waiting. If he doesn't contact me back in a few weeks then I'll have to go back to either waiting out Doakes' theory or skipping town.

I manage to find some paper and a pen. I write 'We need to talk' on it and leave it on the kitchen table. Hopefully he'll be back to find it. If not, then I'll have to deal with this on my own.

I pick up a pulled pork sandwich on my way back to the station. Possible impending doom is no reason to go hungry.

I'm walking back into the Homicide Department when Doakes spots me.

"Mind telling me where the fuck you went for two hours?" I'm sorry Doakes, but I can't tell you that.

"Lunch," I say dully. Poor harassed Dexter.

"For two fucking hours?" I really can't have him questioning me too much.

"It's none of your business." I say, beginning to walk away from him and towards my corner. He's been a pain in my ass for too long now. God, I wish I could break the Code, just this one time.

"You went to see your new friend?" his words make me stop. My blood boils and my eyes see red. Not because he just implied that I'm working with the man who tried to kill my sister, but because of how right he is. How I just can't seem to keep anything from him. How I've just lost so much control to him. And how he knows it, mocks me for it, rubbing my nose in it. "What's the matter, I hit a nerve?" he asks in a taunting tone. My anger sharply rises. I turn around the briskly walk to him, pointing my finger right in his face.

"Shut the fuck up. You. Know. _Nothing_." I mutter through gritted teeth, standing just a couple feet away. He stands up straight, showing off the height difference and leans over me. It does nothing to stifle my anger. Only makes it grow at how he dares to challenge me. Doesn't he know how many times I've killed? How I'm well trained in the art of destruction, just like him?

"Hey, hey! Break it up!" LaGuerta comes between us, grabbing Doakes and trying to pull him back. Doakes doesn't even look at her.

"Back off Maria. I know what I'm doing" he says, never breaking eye contact with me.

"Doakes, leave him alone" LaGuerta pleads. Doakes doesn't acknowledge her this time.

"So you gonna answer my fucking question or what?" Doakes says to me. My fingers twitch at my side. There's a letter opener on the desk behind me. Sharp enough to pierce a carotid artery, even through Doakes' muscular neck. He'd be dead before his body hit the floor.

"What is going on in here?" Pascal demands, walking out of her office.

"This psycho just disappeared for two fucking hours", Doakes says, finally stepping away from me. I bite back the want to still kill him right here and now.

"He requested a long lunch and I accepted," Pascal says. Good, she's on my side. She's new, that's why she believed Doakes. But now that she sees he has it out for me, I might have more time to deal with Doakes then I first thought.

Doakes glares at me and walks away. LaGuerta tries to apologize, but I brush her off and go back to my corner, trying to fight back my anger. What makes this all so much worse, is that he might win. That thought alone almost makes breaking the code worth it. But I can't.

The idea of a partner in crime is turning out to be really handy.

At five sharp I'm out of the station. I'm just pulling out of the parking lot when I see Doakes, in his car, right behind me. This isn't looking good. I turn out of the parking lot. He follows.

He follows me all the way home. This really isn't good. I park my car and walk towards my apartment. Doakes' car turns off, but he doesn't get out. Doakes is watching me. If he keeps it up, I won't have a chance to contact Brian. If I can't contact Brian, then I'll just have to smile and swallow Doakes' shit. Doakes will call me out, and get away with it. No...Just no.

I walk into my apartment and shut the door behind me, my anger from my last encounter with Doakes returning.

"Hope you like salmon," comes an oh-so-familiar voice.

I quickly turn to my kitchen and see my brother there, cooking. My anger melts away and I've never been so happy to see someone ever before. I can only blink at him, leaning against my closed door. What do you say to your solution, the person who will save your life, when they have broken into your apartment and made you dinner? How perfectly this sums up my relationship with my brother. He breaks into my home not even a week after trying to kill my sister, and makes me dinner.

"Yeah. How're you cooking it?" I ask almost automatically. Because, really, what else can I say here without sounding stupid? I hoped he'd find me, but I didn't think he'd break into my apartment. Even though he has already has done so, several times. He's just never stayed for dinner.

"Broiling it. We also have carrots, spinach, and rice," he lists off, pointing to various places in my kitchen. What a nice meal.

"Sounds good," I say as I sit down. Really, what can I say? This feels...surreal, yet so natural. Is this how we are suppose to be? How it would be if we were never separated? The idea of not hiding behind my mask is still so foreign.

"So what did you want to talk about?" Brian asks and he puts some food on a couple of plates. It smells good. But that is beside the point. He needs to know how big of an issue we have. He clearly doesn't realize that we both could be weeks away from a jail cell.

What does he think I meant? 'We need to talk' is a little bit vague. Does he think I meant we need to talk about us? I feel a pang of regret for leading him on. It's time to correct that.

"We have an issue." I start off. He hands me a plate and we move to the living room. He just hums an acknowledgment and looks uninterested. "There's this guy at work..." I continue, pausing. How do I say this? "He knows," I state plainly. I've never been tactful.

"Knows what?" he asks after he swallows some food. He looks at me more seriously now. He understands that this is bad. He just doesn't understand how bad. Doakes has the general details down. No specifics, yet, but far, far too much.

"Everything." I say plainly. He seems taken back by this. It's a very bad situation. Doakes knows just about everything. He's managed to infer a lot, and it won't be long before he convinces others.

"He can't know everything. If he did than we'd both be in jail right now," Brian seems more shocked then trying to argue against me. Still, it's a valid point.

"He can't convince anyone else, at least not yet. But I'm not sure how long my reputation will hold up," I explain. There's a long pause and he slowly chews his food, thinking. I have to say, it feels good to be able to tell this to someone. After keeping my looming death to myself for these few days, it's nice to share it.

"Does he have any evidence?" Brian gets to the heart of the matter. Really, it all hinges on evidence. He has enough to find the evidence.

"Aside from logic and inductive reasoning, not much." I take a drink from one of the beers that my loving brother brought. Really, he knows exactly what any good sociopath needs after a long day of not getting caught. "But he has enough to start an investigation. I can get rid of the slides and my tools, but I can't cover up all of the evidence," I finish. Brian appears to be deep thought again. He's taking in the situation, figuring out possible solutions. Of course he'll hone in on the easy choice. The door closed to me, but not him.

"That is an issue," he says slowly. He's being careful of what he says. He knows what we have to do, but thinks I'll be offended. He's learned from his mistake with Deb. He sees that the Code is important to me. Maybe this union isn't as dangerous as I first thought. Maybe he's not trying to pull my away from the Code. But right now, maybe it's time to share more about my code with my brother.

"Harry taught me a code," I start. He already knows that, and he knows that this code tells me who to kill, he just doesn't know to what extent, how in depth it gets. Or doesn't get. "You know that the Code says I can only kill killers..."

"Right. Harry taught you that. For survival." He says the last part with partially hidden skepticism, quoting me from the last time we meet. He doesn't believe that the Code is productive. That's okay for now, I don't expect him to understand. I'm just satisfied that he respects the Code.

"He described it as, 'making the best of a bad situation'. He didn't teach me that I should kill, but if I had to, I should kill people who deserve it," and that is a key distinction. That is why I'm not an avenger. Because I don't kill for revenge. "There is no priority system. I don't have to go after one killer anymore than another one." He seems to be taking this in. He still doesn't seem too interested by the Code, but he at least seems to recognize it's importance. When it comes to me, at least.

"So there is no reason why you have to kill me," he says. I smile. My brother is a sharp one. Even without understanding the reason behind the Code, he still learns.

"It's an undefined part of the Code..." I trail off. It is undefined. 'Kill bad guys' is a little bit vague. Harry taught me how to find out if someone is bad enough, but he stopped the lessons there.

"Another undefined part is friendship. Harry taught me that I need a social life in order to fit in, that friends are important. He never told me who I should and shouldn't befriend though," just like who to kill.

'Make friends' is just as vague, and never explained. 'Make friends with who?', always seemed like an irrelevant point. Friends were just a cover, that's all that Harry taught me to see them as, and that's all that I did see in them. But Brian's a little bit different.

"So there is no reason why you can't be my friend," and my brother gets it once again. Do all sociopaths think alike, or is it because we are brothers? He doesn't seem to understand how this relates to the last one though. I still have to bring it all home.

"Harry also taught me caution. Caution always goes first. If another killer, one who I've decided not to kill, decides to kill someone else, I have no obligation to go out of my way, risking getting caught, to save him." I end this by taking another drink of beer, briefly faking an obvious look of sheepishness. My brother will get it. Brian leans back in his chair and places his empty plate on the coffee table.

"I think the Ice Truck Killer has a new victim in mind." He mentions casually, leaning back in a relaxed pose. The idea of giving Doakes or his theory any more credibility makes my heart skip a beat.

"No!" I hiss.

He looks at me, confused and slightly panicked. His posture goes from casual to alert within the blink of an eye, and, even though it's completely off topic, I have to appreciate his ability to be ready in a moment's notice. His killer instincts, just like mine.

"No?" he asks confused, like maybe he misinterpreted something. Like maybe I am offended at the thought of killing Doakes. After all, the Code doesn't make any sense to him anyway.

"Doakes hasn't convinced anyone that I'm guilty, but people are starting to suspect that I'm working with you. If the Ice Truck Killer gets him shortly after he starts pointing fingers at me..." I trail off. He seems to understand though. A frozen Doakes is a no go. A dead Doakes, however, isn't out of the picture.

"A mugging gone wrong then," he says, returning to his relaxed position, "This is Miami, people die in muggings all the time. Any evidence against us would be purely circumstantial." He finishes. I nod my head in approval. We sit in silence, thinking. He checks his watch. "I need to get back to the safe house soon," he says, standing. He turns towards the door to leave.

"Wait!" I say. He turns around and looks at me expectantly. "Doakes is starting to follow me. He's probably watching my door right now," I explain. He looks back to the door. He smiles, instead of the expected frustration. I don't have time to question him about it though.

"Guess I'm crashing with you tonight." he says in a cheery voice. Now I understand why he is smiling. He wants to spend time with me.

"Guess so." I mutter loud enough for him to hear.

I should have known. I've spent the last few months in my game with the Ice Truck Killer, but Rudy Cooper was there too. He always wanted my friendship, to be there for me. I thought he was just Deb's creepy boyfriend. Turns out he was my creepy brother. And that hasn't changed. He still wants to spend time with me, be near me. The idea is odd. Ever since I saw him lose his temper, I've looked at him more as a heartless murder than a brother. I presumed that he was a textbook sociopath, no emotions whatsoever. I'm not a textbook sociopath. I like to think I have some emotions. Maybe he's like that too.

Why else would he find me? I don't even want to think about how long it took him, or even how he did it. Harry destroyed the records. The connection between Dexter Moser and Dexter Morgan is nonexistent. Or so Harry thought. I don't know how my brother did find me, but it must have taken him years. And what would compel a person to do that? He doesn't seem to have any ulterior motives. Just to be with me. Because he missed me.

The thought makes me feel like I'm dirtying this up. He longs for nothing but pure brotherhood, and I'm using him for my own personal gain. I don't like that. This could be my one and only true friendship I could ever cultivate, and already I'm being a jerk.

But Brian is smart, and unlike anyone else, he understand me. He knows how I think and how I work. I watch him examine the shelves in my living room, letting nothing past his scrutinizing eyes. I would normally be bothered by that, but there's nothing left to hide from him. Brian knows everything, even more than me in some regards. I'm sure he knows exactly why I contacted him, and what I'm doing with him. He knows that I'm using him like I would anyone else, just a tool.

And he's fine with that. I smile into my almost-empty beer bottle. It's because he would do that same thing. He's just like me; he doesn't just know how I think, he thinks like me too. I don't have to worry about offending him in the same ways as I do other people. He might even appreciate my resourcefulness. He's done it once before, retrieving my kill for the world to see, testing me to see if I could claw my way out of the hole. I did then, and I'm doing it now.

This is a new kind of friendship. A real one.


	5. Chapter 5

I never thought that doing something so wrong would feel so good. Brian laughs from the spot on the couch to me left, our empty plates from dinner sitting on the coffee table.

"I have one", he says, setting down his beer. "Alright, so I'm about...twenty-three or twenty-four years old, still in college. There was this one bitch in my economics class. She would always be talking about how creepy I am. To my face no less", he says, setting the situation for his blundered kill. I can relate all too much to being constantly called creepy. "Admittedly, I was still getting use to acting normal for real normal people, not my buddies from the loony bin", he explains. That what he oh so lovingly refers to the place he grew up as; the loony bin. A stark contrast from where I grew up. "Finally, I got fed up with her. I snuck into her home one night. Mistake number one, she lived in a sorority house with five other women", and I laugh at that, it's such a rookie mistake. He joins me. No wonder that kill got blotched, it was doomed from the beginning. Rule number one, always make sure your victim is alone. And that isn't part of the code, it's just common sense.

"Anyway, so there I am, ski mask on, knife in my hand, climbing into her window", he explains.

"Wait, were you planning on killing her there?", I ask, shocked. To kidnap a girl from a sorority house filled with witnesses is one thing, but to kill a woman there?

"Mistake number two", he says, holding up two fingers for emphasis. I'm amazed he's still around today after that. The police don't give us much leeway when we mess up our kills on the learning curve.

"Hell of a mistake. How'd you not get caught?", I can just see Harry shaking his head frantically at all the mistakes made. I was awkward at killing in the beginning too, but I had prior training at least, all part of the code. But Brian didn't, and he still made it. What does that say about the code?

"Well, as I'm sure you imagined, my would-be victim screamed, other women came running in, they screamed, I ran as fast as I could...Police would have probably gotten me, but I lucked out. Some kid was planning on doing some vandalizing that met my description. Had the full outfit for it too, we matched. Kid thought he'd be charged with a misdemeanor, got a felony instead", he explains, taking another drink of his beer. He made it this far in his killing career, but barely. "Police arrested him, I got off free", he finishes. The legal system hard at work.

"Satan must have been watching out over you", I kid, since God definitely wasn't helping him.

"I do serve him very dogmatically", he jokes along with me, taking another drink of his beer. I wonder if Doakes is bored yet. I haven't heard his car leave, and it's been several hours. How persistent. I don't want to open the shades and look out. Hell would come to me with full furry if Doakes sees Brian in my house, laughing and eating dinner with me.

"First time", Brian says. "Your first time is always the most awkward. Who was your first kill?", he finishes. I take a sip of my beer, hesitant. He's right, the first kill is always the worst. I'd rather go back to talking about our better kills than our worst.

"Well...", I start off. I remember my first kill. I'm glad I was able to kill her, I'd hate to think she'd live to tell about how crappy of an assassin I am. "She was a nurse...", I trail off. A nurse that was slowly killing Harry. But I want to avoid talking about Harry, he has been a point of contempt for my brother, the one big place that we disagree.

"A nurse that kills?", he asks. He still doesn't seem to fully believe that all of my victims are killers. They are. All of them.

"She would give her patients too much medicine, slowly killing them", I explain. Yes, Brian, a nurse that kills. "You know how I kill, right?", I ask, even though I already know for a fact he does. The way he prepared Deb proves that. He did stalk me for several months, watching me on the hunt.

"Stalk them for several days, find evidence of their guilt, either strangle or drug them, bring them to an already set-up kill room, coated in plastic with tools at the ready", he describes my darkest secret so perfectly without even the slightest hint of judgment. It's not a true secret anymore, but I like this. Sharing with someone that understands.

"You know me too well. Well, first of all, I did no stalking, nor did I knock her out at all", I explain. He looks confused, wondering how that would work. I couldn't just ask her to walk into the kill room. She did that on her own. "I had her walk into the kill room. Which was her own living room", Harry had instructed how to set things up before, but it has all been in theory. That was the first real kill room I set up, and Harry had been too weak to even tell me how to do it. "The entire room, coated in plastic", I set the scene. He chuckles into his beer. It took me a long time to set up.

"That must have cost a small fortune in plastic wrap", he comments. That too. Cost way too much, and I didn't have a job then. It all came out of my allowance.

"It did. And that's not the worst part. She caught me. I had to wrestle with her. Took me a good minute to knock her out", I continue. I'd rather not get into too much detail about my flop of a kill. "But after that, I managed to get her without any other problems Yours?"

"Oh, God...Well, I tried to get a hooker, but I was so nervous they all thought I was a cop. Finally I calmed down enough to get a girl. I tried to strangle her, but she knocked me off. I tried again, ended up snapping her neck. I just kinda left after that", he says with a humble look on his face. I laugh at him.

"You just left? Was this in a hotel room?", the idea is funny in a way most would probably be disgusted at. Just leaving a kill lying around.

"No...", he trails off, sniggering slightly. "I wanted to hide her, but I also didn't want to carry her out of the room. Ended up cramming her under the bed", he finishes I can't help but to laugh at that. "That's not even the worst part", he interjects. "Took them a week to find the body", he finishes. I give in and laugh a full hardy laugh. I don't think I've ever done that before.

"Well, I guess there's no such thing as a born killer", I say, grabbing the plates and bringing them into the kitchen to wash them.

"Perfection requires practice. The art of killing is just that; an art", he says from behind me. That's one big thing that me and my brother differ on. He does art and symbolism, concepts that always seemed to escape me. Well, until now. I remember in school I had to take an art class. I would have no style, no emotion, as my teacher said. She said that my art work should reflect who I am on the inside. The irony that my artwork did reflect me still doesn't escape today. I would see picture and drawings that are suppose to inspire, but all I saw just a picture. Art always meant nothing to me, just lines and color, curves in clay, or a pile of metal.

But then my brother came along. His art work I appreciate. It does inspire me. It's truly beautiful. "You've turned killing into art", I comment from the kitchen. "With me, there's no art behind it. Just...Blood and death", I finish. He doesn't say anything for a while, so I look back at him. He's rubbing his chin, his expression clearly telling me he's biting his tongue. He has something to say that I won't like. I don't like that he feels like he has to bite his tongue.

"Let me guess, you have a complaint about Harry again?", I probe. Brian doesn't like Harry. It's pretty clear. I normally wouldn't like someone criticizing Harry, especially when it comes to how he raised me, but Brian's the one exception. For him, with all he knows and all that happened to him, he can criticize Harry.

"You do good work. You could turn killing into art like me, but...", He trails off, not wanting to say the words. I return to washing the dishes. This is one thing I have to appreciate about my brother, despite a complete misunderstanding of the code and a hatred of Harry, he's willing to set it all aside and smile, just for my sake. But he doesn't have to.

"But?", I continue to probe. "You don't have to worry about offending me"

"But Harry taught you lies", he comes back without a second hesitation. "He taught you that your wrong, that you need to hide what you do, be ashamed of who you are", he says passionately. Did Harry teach me lies? He lied about my past, I can't deny that, but lies about who I am?

He told that I would never love anyone, or even care about another human being. That no one would ever accept me for who I am. He did lie about who I am. I stop scrubbing the dish I'm working on and just stare into the murky water. I try to push the thought out of my head, but the more Brian talks about Harry, the less I see of him. I'm torn between following Harry to my security and old life, and following Brian to the truth and freedom. There's that choice again, Brian or Harry? I can't put it off forever, and the day will come when I have to choose.

I go back to scrubbing the dish, slowly this time. He did teach me to hide, but that's only common sense. Did he teach me to be ashamed of what I do? He was ashamed of what I did, but I never saw it like that. I see my work as something good, to be proud of. I even gloat as often as I can about it. Sadly the only time when that happens is when I'm about to do the deed itself and kill someone.

"What was the first animal you killed?", Brian asks, pulling me back to reality. I return to washing the dishes at full speed.

"Uh...A cat", I reply confused. Where did that come from?

"Sorry, it's just that we were having a good time...I didn't want this 'Harry' thing to stop that", he explains. I smile at just how pure his intentions are. I still find it ironic that he only wants the most simple and innocent of things, but his means to them are so bloody and violent.

"I was around six or seven, I think, and I spotted this little stray cat. Kitten really, but I don't like to be known as a 'kitten killer'. I've been having...fantasies about killing things for a while, and when I saw that little orange kitten, it just became too much. I did it in my garage, I used knives from the kitchen...", I recall the memory. I omit how I felt when the small kitten mewed it'd final mews. Fantastic. I'm not sure why though. Brian kills for the same reasons I do. It makes him feel fantastic too. Alive, as though it's the only time we ever get to really breath. But there's no need to get too deep into the joys of killing. "Yours?", I ask. This is how it's been working all night. A question, my response, and his, like a demented game of twenty questions.

"I was raised in the loony bin. Constant supervision, little brother", he says matter-of-factly. I put the last of the dishes away, walking about into the living room.

"Are you telling me you never killed and animal?", that idea is...odd. Killing animals is almost a rite of passage of growing up for people like us. Just like how losing your first tooth is considered a rite of passage for normal children.

"When I got out, a cat wouldn't cut it. I wanted to kill a human", he explains. He was twenty-one when he got out, I recall from an earlier conversation.

"And you ended up snapping a hooker's neck", I also recall from earlier.

"Not my finest work, but it still felt great. Under all the terror I had of getting caught, that is", he says. We fall back into comfortable silence, making small chit chat for the rest of the night, until we both go to sleep.

I'm up first the next morning. I look around my apartment, but Brian is no where to be found. The door to my guest bedroom is still shut, though I do hear some shuffling from the inside. I go into the kitchen to make coffee. Last time me and Brian slept under the same roof he was first up to make the coffee.

That was during the weekend that we packed up Joe's house. Our father's house. Joe was Brian's father too, I realize. Did he get notification? Did he mourn over his father? Does he have beloved memories of Joe that I lack?

Is Joe's death a coincidence? Brian walks out of the guest room, looking slightly embarrassed. "Coffee?", I offer. I wonder what's up.

"I hate to ask this, but I really need a change of clothes...", he trails off. Clothes. I doubt he has very many spare outfits. His safe house, our childhood home, didn't seem very well stocked. If my brother really is every inch the neat freak he seems to be, this must be killing him on the inside.

"In my room", I say, pointing the direction. "You can have a couple outfits, though I'm not sure how well they'll fit", I tell him, even though he's already half way down the hall. He's taller and skinnier then I am, but my clothes should fit. Just not very well.

I return to my coffee. Joe. Deb had been bugging me to meet Rudy, now Brian, for several weeks before hand. She also said that Brian had wanted to meet me too. Brian definitely wanted to meet me, but would be plot a sinister conspiracy, killing his own father, just to do so?

Yes, he would. Bloody means to reach an innocent goal. Brian killed Joe just to meet me. I remember when I suggested that someone killed Joe, how Rita commented it was odd that there was a sedative in his blood. How Brian made outlandish excuses for why that could be that didn't involve murder. I take a sip of my coffee. I have to say, my brother gets what he wants. I'll have to be more careful when I say 'no' to him next time.

Speak of the devil, Brian walks our of my room wearing one of my outfits. It does have an awkward fit, both too big and too small, but good enough. It's not like he's going out into public anyway.

"Did you kill our dad?", I ask bluntly. Why bother with the sentimental, emotion act now? It's not like I ever even met Joe, and clearly Brian didn't care too much for him. I turn to face my brother, a playful and curious look on my face. Brian looks tired., he sways slightly as he walks and he stares at me for a few seconds before he even seems to realize what I asked.

"Uh...a little bit", he says like a five year caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I laugh at him, he's clearly still half asleep.

"Just a little bit?", I poke fun at him. It's amazing how quickly and easily this friendship has fallen into place. It's just...so natural. He smiles and begins to laugh too.

"Really, it was just a little shot. It's his heart that turned on him", he jokes, reaching for the coffee. He yawns and stretches as he pours himself a cup of coffee and moves to sit at a bar stool. I sit next to him.

"I always took you as a morning person", I comment, sipping on my coffee. Maybe I pegged him wrong, and just presumed he was like me in this regard as well.

"I usually am, but between being the Ice Truck Killer, Deb's perfect boyfriend and a doctor, I didn't have much time for sleep. Having to sleep with one eye open doesn't help me catch up on the beauty sleep either, now that I'm on the run", he complains. He gulps his coffee. That has to burn going down. "Last night was the first good night's sleep I've had in a while", he finishes. I just nod, thinking more about just what these past few months have been like for him.

What it must feel like to have such a long and complicated plan. What it has to be like when someone acts differently than how you expected, and you have to work to adapt your plan, salvage it. How it must have felt when it all came down to the wire, and I refused to kill Deb. How much will power it must have taken for him to pick himself up off the ground, dust himself off, and rearrange his plans. Deb really got lucky he's so level headed. The more I think about, the more I realize it.

"So, getting back to this whole Doakes thing...", he starts off. Right, Doakes, problem number one. I have the day off of work today, plenty of time to deal with him.

"We need to deal with right away. Like today", I state, he looks at me, displeased at having a kill sprung on him so quickly. It's one of the rare times in my life that I sympathize. Plotting murder is not something you do in one day. But Doakes has to be dealt with right now.

"Right. We're playing defensive here", he mutters. He understands the necessity. We don't have the time to sit around and plan this all out. We have this morning, over breakfast.

I begin to cook bacon and eggs. It's only fair, since he cooked dinner. And besides, we are going to need our strength today.

"Well, if he is following you, you can lead him to some private place where I'll be waiting and ready", he outlines the plan. Sounds good, now all we need are details.

"I'll go grocery shopping, that'll give you time to get where ever", I begin.

"It'll have to be at least semi-public, if we want it to look like a mugging", he adds. It shouldn't be that hard to find a place.

"There's that old strip mall on Second and Mabry. Lots of dark corners there", a normal place for a mugging gone wrong and the ideal place to make a murder look like a mugging gone wrong. There are only a couple of stores left, easy to get no witnesses there. A thought occurs to me. "How will you get there?"

"I'll hotwire on the ones in the parking lot. Cops won't care as long as it's not seen near the scene of the crime"

"Park it a little ways off and it should be fine", I nod at how nicely this plan is coming together. I'm hesitant to say the next part. "Do you need a gun?", I ask.

"I have a knife", he says. This is awkward. I try to figure out just how to phrase this without pissing him off too much.

"It's just...with Batista...", and I'm glad Brian messed up then, I don't want Batista to die, but he can't do it again this time. I was right, Brian is mad. He has a tense look on his face and he leans back in his chair, looking away from me.

"I was going to finish him, I just got interrupted. We have better control this time. If the first cut doesn't kill, I'll make sure the second one does", he says. The thought is odd to me. The picture of Doakes lying on the ground, bleeding and defeated.

"Alright, make sure no one is around. Oh, and one more thing about Doakes", I start. A little heads up about Doakes' past would be a nice thing to mention. I stand up. "He use to be in Special Ops. Highly trained and more than happy to kill. Watch yourself", I say, patting his arm before I move to grab my keys and put my plate in the sink. I turn and look at Brian, still sitting at the bar stool. He places his hand on his lower left side and leans back, putting his other hand behind his head. There's the tip of a sheath sticking out. His knife is right there at the ready. I trust that he'll get the kill this time. One good cut and Doakes is down, helpless, if not already dead.

I walk out of my apartment and lock it behind me. It's just a show, I don't want Doakes to think anything is up. I turn and view the beautiful day. I also notice Doakes' car in my peripheral vision. Persistent, just as I thought. I walk down the steps and to my car, still looking around. I wonder what car Brian will choose?

I get into my car and leave. Doakes follows a few moments later. I feign blissful ignorance.

I go to a grocery store on my way to the soon-to-be crime scene. I take my dear sweet time picking out everything that I need. I want to make sure that Brian has plenty of time for any preparations.

I examine a head of cabbage before putting it back. I hate cabbage. I meander to the next vegetable; carrots. Doakes didn't follow me in, but I still want to look productive for any other bystanders. Today is not the day to do anything suspicious.

I realize that in some sense, I am breaking the code. Sure, I still obey all the real rules, the ones written deep in my brain, but it's like there are unwritten rules, things about the code that I only infer or guess from what Harry always told me. This would be among the unwritten ones, right behind 'don't kill the innocent' is 'don't have someone else kill the innocent'. But Brian was right. Harry did teach me, indirectly, that this is something to be ashamed of. Right behind rule number one, the most important rule, lies the one unwritten rule that I reject fully. Behind 'don't get caught' is 'but wish that you would'. There was always this feeling with Harry, that I was wrong, a monster doing something bad.

And believed him. I was always okay with being a monster, but I never doubted him when he told me that I was one. I stop pushing my cart and just stand for a moment. I run my hand through my hair, sighing. I always believed Harry was a great man, my own person Jesus Christ. Meta-human. Unquestionably perfect.

But then Brian came along. He shook that belief down to my core. The imagine of super-human Harry is crumbling, leaving behind the remains of a mere mortal. But the code still stands, I can't give that up. Created by an imperfect man, it's still the foundation of all I am.

I pay for my food. This is a small store, and I only picked up a few things. I could only drag that out for so long. Soon I'm in the parking lot, putting bags into my car. Doakes is still in the corner of my eye, watching me. I can even see his dark figure sitting patiently in his car. I wonder, if left to his own devices, how long would Doakes follow me? How long would I have to sit still and remain innocent before he would give up?

Never. It's a moot point, I'm guilty and Doakes won't stop until he can prove it. That is why he has to be stopped. I get in my car are drive towards the strip mall. The only two places left is a cheap sushi place and a shoe store. I think I need new shoes. I park my car and step out. This strip mall is large, with lots of twists and turns. Plenty of dark corners good for stabbing on my way to the shoe store.

I walk slowly, breathing in the sweet air of life. Do I regret what I'm about to do? I regret it came to this, but I don't have a choice. No, Doakes, you're the one who forced me to do this. I never wanted to hurt him, well, not until he really started pissing me off. He follows a distance behind me, not wanting to get seen. He's suspicious, that why he's following me now. Good, this is all going perfectly I turn another corner, walking into the shoe store, Doakes' footsteps gone. It's all you now Brian.

"Hi, how may I help you?", a perky woman greets me. I smile back at her, and my stomach turns into a knot, because even though I'm not doing it myself, I feel like I'm breaking the code.

"Yeah, I'm looking for some new sneakers. Something good for jogging", I state. It doesn't matter if it feels good or not, it's too late for Doakes. It was too late the very second he start pointing his finger at me. That cannot be tolerated.

The woman - Bethany, her name tag claims - brings me to an aisle filled with men's sneakers. I walk along the rows of shoes. "Thanks Bethany, I'll be sure to get you if I need anything", I shoo her away.

"Okay", she says, smiling a big fake smile. I smile a big fake smile back at her. She leaves and I walk the aisle some more, looking at the shoes. Right around now Brian should be slitting Doakes' throat. The image comes to be, Doakes, on the cold, hard cement ground, clutching at a gaping wound in his side, trying to crawl away. Brian quickly walking to him, bending down, grabbing his neck, and with one quick motion, blood flows everywhere.

It's not a fantasy, it's real, happening now, just a few yards away. I'm tempted to turn to the door, to see if I can see any of the blood flowing. But I keep my eyes on the shoes. I can't be caught looking back. Even just the slightest turn of my head could mean the difference between a mugging gone wrong or a plot to kill a detective too close to the truth.

I get a pair of Champion shoes, twenty five dollars. They are black and white and a good fit. I'll get a sandwich from the subway just across the street, giving me an excuse not to walk back the way I came and see Doakes' dead body. I'll loop around the building, no one will suspect me.

They might question Bethany about any customer's she had that day. They'll describe me, and they may or may not find out that it was me. If they do, all evidence is just circumstantial. Doakes was following me, it's the truth and easy to convince other people of. It's something that Doakes would - and did - do, everyone knows that.

They also know that I don't like big stores or brand names. Doakes was following me while I innocently got some shoes. Not my fault someone mugged him.

No, I'm just innocent Dexter. The bell jingles as I walk out of the store. I walk away from the store, going in the opposite direction I came in from. I'm careful not to look to my left, the general direction that Doakes' cold, lifeless-

"Dexter?", I hear my sister's surprised voice.

Fuck. Not a good sign. My heart beats wildly as I turn to face her and my personal hell that waits behind her, waiting to engulf me. "Deb?", I try to sound surprised in the happy way, and not so much in the 'pee my pants and hide under a rock' way. "What are you doing here?", I try to ask in a normal voice. I move my show box from under one arm to the other, making sure she sees them. Is Doakes okay? Is Brian okay?

"So, uh, what's going on?", I ask, pointing to a few stray policemen towards the corner where Doakes was stabbed. Hopefully stabbed. Deb looks down, and sniffs, her eyes watering up. Please be crying about Doakes getting stabbed and not your ex-boyfriend getting caught.

"It's Rudy" - fuck - "They caught him. They fucking caught him", she says, looking down and crying. She walks to me and hugs me. My arms numbly go around her. I have so many questions. Is Rudy - Brian - okay? Is Doakes okay? Did Rudy at least get a good swipe at him? How did he get caught? I take a deep breath, but it comes out as a pant. I need to ask the right questions. I can't do something stupid right now.

I step back from Deb and hurriedly walk around the corner. I need to see what is happening. It's justifiable, I'm a concerned brother. Just concerned about a different sibling "Here? They found him here?", I ask Deb who follows behind me.

"Yeah. He attacked Doakes. Luckily Doakes was with another cop", she explains. I round the last corner my and heart constricts.

Brian is there, shoved against a brick wall, handcuffed and being searched by a policeman. His face is facing away from me, but the policeman pulls him off the wall once he is done searching. Brian's head is hung low. He tilts his head towards us, and I can just barely see his eyes. The disgust, self-loathing, fear, depression, and most prevalent, the anger. It's all in there as he looks right at me, his face stone hard and eyes holding nothing but bitter hatred. But soon the police haul him out of sight, carefully avoiding a pool of blood.

"We got him, Dex", Deb says, placing a hand on my shoulder. My mouth goes dry. You certainly do Deb.

You caught my brother.


	6. Chapter 6

Doakes is in critical condition. They say he won't live to see another day. The satisfaction I get from hearing that is minimum. My mood just about matches that of my coworkers me. Glad that it's finally over, but saddened at the soon-to-be lose of a friend. I just have it reversed.

Doakes is drugged up and unconscious, never to wake up again. We all said our final goodbyes, and now only his family is left to see him off of this world.

Right now, everyone's eyes is on the screen, the cop that is an inch from death only in the back of their minds. Right now, my brother is the star, the focus of attention. Doakes was always great at interrogating, but he's gone, so they had to pick the runner up. That's one good thing for Brian. I don't think he'd take very well to being screamed at by the man he tried, and failed at, killing.

But he didn't fail. Not exactly. It's not a quick death, but I do want Doakes to suffer. It works out nicely. My brother's sacrifice will not be in vain.

My brother. He's in the little white room that I'm so use to. Use to watching thousands of different people react hundreds of different ways to dozens of different interrogation styles.

A policeman is screaming at him, demanding a confession. Brian hasn't said anything since they brought him in. He only stares at the man pacing before him, his face just as cold as ever, his eyes burning with hatred and anger that refuses to dwindle. His mask is off, he no longer bothers to wear it. Everyone knows he's guilty, that he's the Ice Truck Killer. They just want a confession to be safe and to save the tax payer's money. It's more of a formality than anything.

"Listen you mother fucker", the cop says, bringing his face just inches from Brian's. Brian doesn't flinch. "We know what you did, everyone knows. They are going to throw your ass in jail for a long, long time", the cop continues, jamming a finger no farther than a mere centimeter from my brother face. He still doesn't move. Doesn't even blink out of turn. The cop leans away and stands up straight, collecting himself. Yelling doesn't affect my brother. He sees that now. Going to switch up the tactic. For the third time. I doubt his next try will be any more successful.

"You're a pretty boy too. Oh, we all know what they do to pretty boys like you in the big house", the cops says calmly, sitting down and reviewing some papers. Brian still doesn't flinch, even in the face of rape.

I frown at the picture before me. My brother got caught. There is nothing that can be done. Rule number one, don't get caught. Anything that I do could easily lead to me getting caught. I can't get caught. It's part of the code. The real code, not just the spirit of the code. I look again at Brian's face. Does he think I'll help him? Is he expecting something to happen? He shows no hint of expectance on his face. Not that he would. This tells me nothing. He would never be stupid enough to give any hints that someone would bust him out.

But no one is going to.

Doakes is not an issue anymore. Brian has become a commodity and no longer an asset. Besides, he knew I was using him. He knew exactly what my intentions were, how I viewed our relationship. We never even came to any sort of truce. We were both going to get caught. We had a common enemy that forced us to work together. There was no declaration of brotherly love, no blood pact formed. It was a mutual understanding. Two heartless killers forced to work with one another under threat of death.

Not that Brian even particularly needed Doakes dead. I was the one that needed Doakes dead. Brian could have skipped town, gotten a new alias, and opened up an ice cream factory in Arizona, regardless of what dots Doakes connected. It was me that needed Doakes dead.

But neither of us knew that Doakes had backup at the ready. It all just happened. And now Brian is caught.

I turn and walk away to my desk. I can't look at him anymore. I shouldn't even think about him anymore. I've had to suspend the code, part of it anyway, long enough. He tried to kill Batista and Deb, and he did kill Doakes. He's dangerous. Granted, I pushed him into Doakes, but Batista and Deb are still very valid points. I turn and watch my colleagues stare intently at the screen. Batista is out of the hospital. He said that he had to be here for when they interrogate Brian and for when they throw him into the holding cell for the rest of the weekend. He's also wants to be there for when they execute him too. It's a matter of 'when' and not 'if'.

In Florida, we allow prisoner to choose how they will die. They can choose between lethal injection or electrocution. I think that's nice, giving us some control back. I've always wondered what I would choose. Lethal injection would seem less painful, but so boring. Electrocution on the other hand, that's exciting. The pure energy coursing through my entire body...

I wonder what Brian would choose. Will choose. I don't like that. With me, the choice is abstract and in the distance future, riddled with uncertainty. So easy to speculate on. But Brian...his choice is in the foreseeable future. The idea - the images - of my brother strapped in a chair in a little white room. Executioner cloaked in black, one hand holding a needle, the other resting on a large switch.

I squirm slightly at my desk. No one is watching me, everyone is focused on my brother. They are all quiet, out of awe for my brother's unwavering nerves or respect my for silently crying sister, I don't know. It doesn't matter. My eyes drift to a door. The door that holds the spare key to the holding cell. That key that would grant my brother freedom. I want to get him the key, to give him the freedom that he promised me.

I look down at my desk. I can't though. If there was someway to safely give him the key, I would, but everything that goes to my brother goes through a policeman's searching hands first. They would find the key, trace the item back to the sender, and then I'd be caught right along side my brother.

Don't get caught. Rule number one. And a damn fine rule too. I take a deep breath, carefully avoiding looking at the door. There's a camera in there anyway. It's simply impossible for me to give Brian his freedom without me giving up mine.

I take another deep breath. I can't be thinking about this stuff. I need out of here. Away from Brian, my doomed brother. From my sister, who can't seem to stack up to my brother anymore. From the image of Harry, my father who I wrongly thought was a God. From his code, which seems to only exist for the mere purpose of mocking me, laughing at me when I try to step outside it's predetermined accepted boundaries.

I go for my lunch break. I don't drive anyway, I can't just drive away from my brother when he is so close to death. I already feel like I'm abandoning him.

I just get a pulled pork sandwich from the outside vender. I can't eat. I stare longingly down at my sandwich. What have you done to me, oh brother of mine? I can always eat. I've killed people, cut them up into pieces, dumped their bodies in the ocean, and picked up some food on my way home.

My mind drifts back to my brother. I wonder what he will choose as his last meal. Aside from steaks and salmon, I have no idea what kind of foods he even likes. I poke the bread of my sandwich, frustrated. It seems like the next best thing to eating it. I lean back and sigh. I look back at the building. I can't see it, but the door still haunts me. Beckoning me in to the key that almost wants to be in my pocket, begging for transport to me brother.

Brian wanted to run away with me. He had completely destroyed his old life, and he planned it too. He intended me to destroy my life as well. It's clear that the next phase in his plan would involve a getaway of some kind, and perhaps resettling in a new place. Or maybe just drifting from town to town. I think I would prefer that, wandering the country. World even. Giving out fake names and lives for every person we meet. Robbing banks, selling other people's stuff, using the cash for fast cars and big hotel rooms. Killing freely, laughing at the cops who would continually fail to catch us. Living free. Without the code.

I push it out of my mind. It will never happen. Brian will be executed, and his offer of freedom will die with him and the code will win out. It's all for the better. He came to tempt me, to try to lure me away from the code. I can't have that.

I know that I'm lying to myself. I'm trying to demonize Brian so that letting him die will become doable. I don't like to lie to myself. My brother's intentions are pure. Always have been. He tried to led me away from the code at first, but then he learned. He never learned the purpose or importance of the code, but he respected me and my choice to live by it. Who knew such a violent sociopath could be so tolerant and respectful?

I frown at my sandwich, still untouched. I can't demonize Brian. I look back at the building, my mind giving me the image of Brian in the interrogation room. Probably getting screamed at again. I tap my fingers on the table. The image of Brian shifts to the door. The door that welcomes me to the room. The room that contains the spare key to the holding cell. The key that promises Brian's freedom.

Really, all I have to do is get it into Brian's hands one way or another. He's smart, capable. He could get himself out from there. All he needs is the key. And all I need is a way to get him the key.

I poke my sandwich again. Sadly, no such way existed. Short of getting a gun and trying to kill everyone in Brian's path a freedom, it's hopeless. Even then, I'd be shot dead before I got to the elevators.

"Hey...", Batista moans, slowly lowering himself into the seat across from me. He insisted on coming in today, despite his doctor's warnings, but he's still useless. Pascal refuses to consider him legally on the job since he can barely even walk.

"Hey", I mutter back, still not looking up from my sandwich. I need to start acting again. My mask is off, completely and utterly. I'm just staring blankly at my sandwich. Questions will be asked, and with Doakes' death by Brian's hands, I'm looking pretty suspicious right now. It's no time to drop the act of poor, innocent Dexter.

"We got the fucker who did this. Cheer up", he tries to lift my spirits, but he only reminds me of the brutal reality that is my brother's impending doom. I don't say anything, just continue to stare at my sandwich, the door to my brother's freedom still burned into my eyes, whispering sweet promises of freedom and brotherhood to me.

In a way this is a good thing. I don't have to choose between Brian and Harry anymore. As much as I hate it, the choice of Brian is ruled out. I waited too long and the choice has been made for me.

"Let's go see Doakes", Batista finally says, standing. I look up. I don't want to visit Doakes. Isn't he dead yet? He better not pull through. The thought of my brother's sacrifice going to waste makes my head spin and my teeth clench in anger. "It'll make you feel better", he continues after I stay seated. A fly lands on my sandwich. I ignore it.

I'm glaring at Batista. I don't want to see Doakes. I don't even want to talk to Batista. Or anyone. I don't want to put on a fake smile and pretend that everything is fine. That the one and only person that I even remotely care about, that I have anything even close to a real relationship with, is going to die.

I don't want my brother to die.

I'm an inch from breaking down. Going on a killing rampage, stabbing and gutting anyone I see, saying 'fuck it' to the code, to my life, and just kill. I want to slam Batista's head into the table. He's injured, it'd be easy. I'd kill the people to the table next to me, then the vendor, then the next person I see. I'd just keep killing, snapping necks, breaking backs, crushing skulls, until finally someone shots me dead and then finally I'd have some peace and quiet and I could stop worrying about all the choices and the implications and all this shit that I have no idea how to deal with.

But I don't. I force a smile on face in stead. It almost hurts. I stand and pull out my car keys. Batista can't drive in his condition.

The fly continues to buzz around my sandwich, left on the table.

We get in my car and I drive. Slowly. I'm tired. Too tired. It was just a week ago that Brian kidnapped my sister. Since then, my friend the Ice Truck Killer has turned into a dangerous person, to my brother, to the murder of my sister, to the person who spared my sister's life, to a abstract riddle to be dealt with later, to the solution to my problem, to a true friend, and finally ending with my doomed brother who I have to let go, because there is no hope to save him. And then there is Doakes himself, him challenging my innocence, gaining a following, and being bought down by my brother, which only made his following grow stronger.

"So what do you think about this Ice Truck Killer thing", Batista asks, trying to make conversation. I shouldn't say anything, I can't give anything way right now, even to a seemingly good friend, but I can't stop the words. I need to talk to someone.

"It's a mess", I mutter.

"He's caught. It's over. What's left?", Batista is confused. That's right, it's over for him, but Brian getting caught marked the beginning for a whole new mess for me.

"But we still don't know anything. His motives, his reasoning...nothing", I catch myself. The police know nothing. I know everything. I almost wish I didn't.

"Yeah...", Batista says, looking at the window, thinking. "You think he even had a motive and plan, or was he just bat shit crazy?", I want to hit Batista. If my brother is one thing, it's organized, thoroughly planned, and very sane. He's caught, but he still doesn't need to be disrespected like that.

"He seemed so sane before...", I mutter. I need to shut up. My story of what happened depends completely on the idea that my brother is simply insane with no motive.

"Deb did say that sometimes he seemed more interested in you than in her", Batista says quietly. Is he starting to buy into Daokes' theory? Have I lost one of my closest allies? "Not that I think Doakes was right about much else, but I think he wanted to do something with you", so he only believes the first part. The problem is, the most logical conclusions will lead him exactly to Doakes' theory. I tap the steering wheel. I need to do something about this.

"Maybe he was just crazy", I slander my brother. I don't like it, but I have to look out for myself right now.

"No, you said that he seemed so sane. He must have had some sort of plan", he says, going back to thinking about what the plan could be. It's not a good sign that he can't seem to think of anything that doesn't involve me being a 'psycho killer', as Doakes puts it. People are starting to doubt my theory, and when they do, they turn to the runner up, the next best logical explanation. That is Doakes' theory. A lot of people don't want to accept it. They don't want to be working with a monster, so they accept the theory in pieces. Like a trail of bread crumbs that lead to monster Dexter, they take it piece by piece.

It might have been too late when we went after Doakes. His idea is out there, and people are still turning to it. You can't kill ideas. I frown deeply. I need to get out of this. I'm in a deep hole, but I can't climb my way out. People don't want to believe Doakes. They just don't have a choice. It's an answer, it's appealing because it's complete. My testimony is filled with holes. It's suppose to be that way, with minimum knowledge. Maybe, if I release a different idea, one that doesn't involve such hard to swallow revelation, they'll go to that one.

Now it's just a matter of figuring out what it could be. What explanation doesn't involve me being the bad guy? This is where creativity could really come in handy.

I glance over at Batista. I have to do a double take. He's looking at a picture of my brother. I look back at the road. Me and my brother don't look too much a like. Our similarities are dwarfed by the difference. Batista won't notice them. Right? Even if he holds a picture of Brian next to my face? I turn my head away from him slightly. I don't need my blood ties with Brian to be found out. And when they think we look alike, they'll run a DNA test. Once they confirm we are brother, they'll investigate our past.

They might not be able to track down our mother and how she died. The records are gone. But Caption Matthews, he's a living record. He remembers. There are several other people at the station who remember. They'll talk, say that they found us both in a pool of our mother's blood. It's not too much of a logical step from there to say that if Brian is messed up from our mother's death, I might be too. And then we get right back to me being a psycho killer.

I park at the hospital. "We're here", I say, getting out of the car quickly, keeping my head down. Batista doesn't need to be talking about how me and Rudy kind of look alike.

The hospital smells like plastic and death. Nurses scurry around, seemingly in a constant panic. Doctors coolly walk, their noses in folders and other paper holders. Room 102, James Doakes.

I pause in front of the door. I really don't want to deal with him. Situations like this evoke strong emotions in normal people. I'm not in the mood for that much acting. Maybe if I keep on picturing Brian in the chair, executioner before him, I'll be able to force a semi-normal reaction.

Batista places a hand on my shoulder and nods. I stare at him, as blank as before. He pushes the door open and walks through. I follow.

And there is Doakes. The large, muscular beast that threatened my very existence is lying there, weak, pale, motionless. Near death. Complete with tubes and wires hooked up to machines. It feels good to know that I still won. Heavy casualties from both sides, but Morgan is the winner. No, not Morgan. That seems too disrespectful. Team Moser is the winner.

Three woman, family, I presume, are sitting in chairs around him. Batista nods and says, "We're here to pay our respects". The women accept this and turn back to Doakes. The room falls into a silence.

Silent expect for one thing. The beeping heart monitor. Doakes' heart that stubbornly refuses to stop. To keep on beating, giving life to my enemy. Rage bubbles up from the darkest corners of being. Every beep is another taunt, a reminder that Doakes _isn't_ dead. He is alive, hanging in there. Every gentle beep seems to being making a mockery of me and my brother, laughing at us and our inability to kill.

Beep. _I'm still here._

Beep. _That the best you got?_

Beep. _You're pathetic._

I breath out a shaky breath, my teeth clench in anger, my hands ball tightly into fists. The people around me fade into nothingness, and the world consists of me, Doakes, and all the sharp objects around us. It's almost like any of my kill rooms, the way Doakes is lying there, helpless, surrounded by tools that seem to cry out to me for blood.

Beep. _Coward._

Beep. _At least Brian tried to kill me._

Beep. _Pussy._

I want to kill him. Half dead or not, I want to make Doakes _bleed_. I want a knife, anything sharp, to dig into his flesh. I want to watch the crimson liquid flow from him, pooling everything, tainting everything, showing the world that Dexter Morgan - Dexter _Moser_ - has dominated, beat, and owned the dying mass of flesh known as James Doakes. That where one brother stops, the other will pick up.

Beep. _Like you have the balls._

Beep. _Hiding behind Big Brother Biney?_

Beep. _You let your brother fall into my trap._

I walk out of the room. I can't be in there anymore. I'm about to lose control. Jesus, how great would it feel to kill Doakes? To be the one that forces his last breath out of him. I'm breathing heavily, lumbering through the hospital. I need out of this place.

I find a nice, isolated bench outside. I didn't let Brian fall into the trap. Neither of us saw it. If I knew, we would have planned differently. But Doakes...The son of a bitch was one step ahead of us. I scowl. Not far enough ahead enough. His heart may be beating for the moment, but he'll die soon.

I hope. They expected him dead an hour ago. He's not dead yet. The looming idea that Doakes might pull through hits me. Doakes might not die. His heart might not stop beating. I tap gently on my knee. Getting the key to Brian may be an impossibility, but finishing Doakes wouldn't be. I have access to a wide array drugs, many of which can kill a man in under a minute. I wouldn't be the likely suspect. I could inject it directly into his IV drip. They'd blame a nurse.

But the code. It still stands just as much as it did yesterday. It taunts me, just like the beep from Doakes' heart monitor. It seems to be in place less for the sake of my survival, but rather for the sole purpose my destruction. My image of Harry has crumbled, but his code is still my Bible. The foundation of my life. I can't question the code. And now it's mocking me from it's unquestionable pedestal.

The code. It's how I've lived my life. It's all I know. It'll guide me out of this mess. Killing Doakes isn't the answer. Right now I need to act innocent, not guilty. Caution first, as the code teaches.

A computerized jingle rings out. I pull out my cell phone. It's Deb. Deb. The station. Brian.

Did Brian crack? He seemed so collected when I left him. That doesn't mean anything though. It's impossible to say what he was thinking when I left.

"Hey Deb. Did Rudy say anything?", I ask before she can even say anything. I said his name. Deb doesn't want to hear his name. Shit. Oh well, I think the status of my doomed brother takes priority over my sister's feelings.

"Uh, no. He hasn't said anything since we brought him in", she explains. I sigh in relief. Luckily for me, sighs of relief sounds a lot like sighs of frustration. "He just stares Dexter...", she continues, quieter this time. "He has this look in his eyes", she says, finally breaking into sobs. Great. I knew that this point in time would come. She couldn't bury her feelings forever.

"Deb...", I start. I have no idea how to assess this. What can I say? 'Sorry your lover turned out to be a psychopathic murderer. Purely hypothetical, what would you do if you found out that I'm also a psychopathic murderer?' Yeah, I'm sure she'd like that.

"They're the same eyes Dex...", she continues, crying. "The same eyes that stared at me while I slept, that bore into my fucking soul when he said he loved me", she pauses again, sobbing. "He said he loved me Dex. He said he fucking loved me...", she ends quietly, breaking into complete sobbing. I probably shouldn't have said his name.

"Deb...", I start again. I have to say something. What do you say to this? What would Harry say? Harry could hardly connect with people any better than me. What would Brian say? He couldn't connect, but he could lie oh so perfectly. He's give some speech about how life happens, and we just have to push through. He'd end it with a light joke too.

"Deb", I start for the third time. "Life happens. Everyone has challenges to overcome. Some people just have bigger challenges. We have to be strong and continue. You lived through it physically, and you can live through this mentally. I know you Deb, you're strong. I've learned that too many times to count", I end it with a weak laugh. I have no idea if that was a hit or a miss, but Deb has stopped crying. That's good, right?

"Jesus Dex. You sound just fucking like him", she says, crying again. Harder this time too. Shit. Maybe trying to emulate Brian isn't a good idea. She cries some more, and I'm too afraid to say anything else.

Finally, her breathing settles down and her sobs stop. There's an awkward silence. I need to say something. I just need to find out what is better to say than nothing. "Dex...", she starts again, meekly.

"Yeah?", I ask. There's another long pause.

"Some people are say that Brian is wearing your clothes", she quietly continues. A chill runs down my back. My clothes. I gave Brian access to my closet. It seemed natural, the brotherly thing to do. I didn't think he'd get caught. Neither of us planned for the contingency of getting caught.

But he did, and now there is solid evidence to support Doakes' claim. I have hair and sweat in the shirt. Forensics will drag my DNA out and prove that it is my shirt. Doakes proposes a plausible theory to what happened when Deb was kidnapped, suggesting I'm working with the Ice Truck Killer. The Ice Trucker Killer stabs him shortly after, while wearing one of my shirts. I turn out to be shoe shopping just yards away. I sigh deeply, burying my face deep into my hand. This is not good.

This is very, _very_ bad in fact. It hits me in waves. Starting with 'another small victory to Doakes' to 'the pressure on me to act normal just increased', going to 'I'm fucked', and ending with 'I'm so fucking fucked and there's nothing I can fucking do about it'.

They have me. Hard evidence linking me with the Ice Truck Killer.

"They think it's proof that you are working with...him", she says. I just blink, my mind scrambling, trying to figure out what to do. My mouth is dry. Deb continues talking. "I told them that they are crazy, that there is a perfectly logical reason behind this all", she says, slightly more cheery. Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out. "They got a search warrant for your place anyway. They're checking it over now, hope you don't mind", she continues on. I focus on trying to keep my hands from shaking so much. "I mean, I know you'll mind. You like your privacy and all. But it's not like they'll find anything", she continues to have a conversation without me. I can hear my heart beating.

_TwampTwampTwamp_

What will they find? Brian's finger prints. Everywhere. Hairs too probably. His shirt in my guest bedroom. The same one that he wore when he first kidnapped Deb. The one that has several days worth of his grim and sweat in it. Some more solid proof of guilt.

Then there are my slides and my tools. They may or may not be found. I could be convicted with killing roughly forty people.

And this is going on now. Right now, they are picking my brother's hair off of my couch and putting it in a bag for DNA testing.

"Dexter?", my sister asks me weakly. She knows Brian is wearing one of my shirts. She knows what it means. She just doesn't want to accept it. She can't. I wonder how she'll take this. Learning that your brother is a sociopath just a few days after learning her lover is also one is not good for ones mental health.

"Yeah, let them search. They won't find anything. Go there, I'll meet you there in a few minutes", I say automatically. Some part of my brain has kicked in. It tells me I have to do something. I have to go, move. That I have a small window of time before the police come to handcuff me.

"Yeah, alright, see you there", and she hangs up, glad at the reassurance. But I can't worry about her right now. I'm the one that needs to do something. I need to jump town, sabotage some DNA tests, destroy some evidence. Do something. Anything. Because I just broke the first rule of the code.

But my legs just won't move. I can't bring myself to fight for my life. Breath in, and breath out. It's the only thing that I can do. Harry never taught me what to do now. He never taught me what to do after I got caught. I'm lost, the code tells me nothing. Rule number one, don't get caught.

I got caught.


	7. Chapter 7

The average DNA test takes four hours. I have four hours before they solidly connect me to the Ice Truck Killer. Four hours of innocence.

Do I sabotage the DNA tests? How? I could mess with them, make the results inconclusive. They'd retest and they'd only be more suspicious of me. There's no way I could swap the DNA. Sabotage would be risky, and only postpone their discovery. I'd have eight supervised hours of freedom.

I could try to destroy as much evidence as possible. But what could I get rid of? My blood slides and tools are in my home, there's no way to sneak them out while my apartment is crawling with cops. If they don't find them now, they won't find them later, so there's no point is even trying there. Everything in my apartment is beyond my control now. There is nothing I can do about that evidence. There is nothing else beside that. The biggest thing that will tell about me outside of my apartment is Rita.

Rita. She's wanted to see me on several nights while I've been busy on the hunt. I told her I was working late. Suspicious, since the people questioning her would know that I lied. They'll tell Rita that I'm working with Rudy Cooper. I wonder how Rita will take the news? Not good, but that's a minor worry right now.

There's only one option I have left. I have to run, skip town. The thought is so foreign to me. I've never believed it'd come to this. I always pictured myself getting caught. I just never gave myself time to run. I always presumed they'd physically catch me, force control away from me. I'd go from perfect freedom to complete doom.

I have some power left. A four hour head start. I stand up off the bench. I need to move. I need to run. What will I need? I need to pick up my tools and slides from my house. But I can't. Not now. Searching and cataloging takes time, five to six hours before they leave my apartment. Too long. My slides and tools are gone.

Money. Cash. I can do that. The bank. I need to withdraw everything. I grab my car keys out of my pocket and head for my car. Batista. I'm his ride. He'll have to find a new ride.

I try not to speed, I don't need a ticket right now, but when the world seems to be chasing you, you run as fast as you can. I'm breathing heavy and fast. I'm panicked, an issue, I know. It can't be helped, there's a gun to my head that will shot me dead unless I get the hell out of here in four hours. I check my dashboard clock. It reads 3:42. The DNA testing started most likely roughly fifteen minutes ago. Rounding, that means I have until 7:30.

I hit the accelerator. Four hours. It's really not that long. Not nearly long enough. I come to a red light, and I want to scream. Cars stop ahead of me. I'm forced to break. I clench at the steering wheel. Cars move around me, but I'm motionless.

Cash. I need cash. The bank is still ten minutes away. It's 3:44. That means I'll get to the bank at 3:54, withdrawing everything will probably take a while. It takes time to count out bills. How much do I have in the bank?

The cars in front of me start moving. I follow a foot behind the car in front of me. He flips me off.

I don't indulge in luxuries often. The plastic wrap for my kill rooms takes a pretty penny, along with renting a space at a marina for my boat, but I've still collected around ten grand throughout the years. That's a lot. Enough to get me started with a new life.

I make a sharp left. The bank is still a few minutes away. It's 3:47.

Cash. What else? What else do I need? Any last goodbyes, now would be the time. Rita. She deserves to know something. She's working right now. I'll call her home phone and leave a message. Time is a very valuable commodity, I can't waste it on sentimental things, like spending an hour explaining the situation with vague half-truths to my girlfriend. I call Rita's home phone as I come to another red light. My foot itches to hit the accelerator, but there's a heavy flow traffic. I would wreck, and that'd be a massive delay. I can't afford that.

"Hello, this is Rita, I can't come to the phone right now. Leave your name and number, and I'll get back to you", her gentle voice says. It's the last time I'll ever hear it, but I can't enjoy it.

"Hey, Rita, it's me. Dexter. Uh...I don't know when you're going to get this...", I trail off. I have no idea what to say. I make a right turn. "but around seven thirty you're going to hear some things...Just...I never wanted to hurt you or the kids", she'll get this when she gets home, around five thirty. Two hours before seven thirty. "I'm sorry", I finish. I hang up. There is nothing else to say. There is no more time to say anything else.

I can't believe it came to this. I'm running, skipping town, like a lowly criminal. Like the people that I hunt.

I pull into the bank parking lot. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I'm closing my bank account. I'd like it all in cash please. No, I'm not running from the police, why would you think that? I need to seem like I'm not a criminal about to jump town. I need to calm down. Calm.

It's 3:56. I'm two minutes behind schedule. I want to stab some in the eye. I walk towards the bank. It's dark inside, the doors are locked.

Today is Sunday.

Fuck.

The ATM. They have an ATM in front of the building I go to. I jam my card in and tap my foot impatiently. I run my hand through my hair and look around. I'm sweating. "Come on...Come one", I mutter. I must look like a junkie right now. Better than a serial killer fleeing the police. I press the buttons. My pin number, then withdrawal, then cash... I can choose five dollars, twenty dollars, fifty dollars, or a hundred dollars. No button for ten thousand dollars. I scowl again. These things have withdrawal limits. I can get four hundred dollars a day.

I growl and claw at the side of the machine. Now I look like a serial killer. Four hundred dollars is not enough. That's enough for some hotel rooms and cheap meals. It'll go far too quickly. It's my maximum daily withdrawal limit. Four hundred dollars it is. I withdrawal five twenties and three hundred dollar bills.

Alright. I have cash, I said my goodbyes to Rita. What next?

Where do I go? Cuba? Mexico? How do I get there? What do I do when there? I stand in front of the ATM. What do I do now? I have no idea where to go, how to flee the country, anything. The code teaches me not to get caught. The code works only when it is left unbroken. Now that I am caught, the code has nothing to say. It ceases to guide me.

So what do I do now? I need some sort of guidance. I don't suppose the library has How to Flee the Country for Dummies. The library closes on Sundays anyway. I look around me. The sky is cloudless and it's warm, despite being in the middle of winter. It's always warm in Miami. I clutch the money tightly in hand. The world is still chasing me, closing in on me, but I have nowhere to go. My body wants to run, but I still don't know where or how. I'm alone, I have no sense of guidance, no plan, no friends...

Brian. I take off for the station. Brian was going to skip town anyway. He knows. He has guidance, something that shows him the way. And he'll help me. He is a friend, a real friend. The idea was something I was played with, only vaguely interested, but now the idea of a loyal ally is comforting, calming. Now I just need him out of the station an in my car next to me. Since I don't have to worry about them tracing anything back to me, I can free him. I just need to get him to my car before the cops get wise. I can't just walk him out though. I need a plan, something to distract them.

It's the first thing that came to my mind and I'm going with it. I'll blow up the building. Not all of it, just a corner. The one used for storage. No one is ever in there. Just a little explosion to distract them. In the mess I'll be able to get Brian out easily.

How to make a bomb. I'm more into biochemistry, what sort of drugs you can inject in a person that'll knock them out without leaving a trace, but I think I remember enough from college. Simple chemicals can be used to create a very big boom. I run through the supplies needed. It'll cost a good hundred dollars and a couple hours, but it's necessary. I need Brian.

Brian. This is good. Part of me actually becomes happy. Well, as close to happy as I get. I'll be with Brian. I have to be with Brian. He wanted to run away with me. He might have a plan about what to do now. Supplies even. He's smart. He knows how to improvise if he isn't prepared. I need him. On so many levels, I need him.

I need his know-how. His ability to think on his feet. His knowledge of the world. He works just as easily as me, but he doesn't have a code. He knows what to do. He adopted a fake name once before. He knows how to move under the radar. He'll know exactly what to do, how to act, where to go. Because right now, I can't think. I don't know where to go. I want to go to my apartment, crawl into bed, and pretend this isn't happening. That won't help things though.

There's more to this though. I'm caught. Or soon to be caught. Rule number one, don't get caught. The code has no self-correcting mechanism. There's no 'if caught, be sure to do this'. It's another grey area. I'm caught, now what? The code is...null, invalid. It says nothing. I'm left to fill in the blank. I don't know what to do. Even the code has left me. My only ally, the only one left that I can trust, is my brother. Beneath my panic and the pure rage, I'm scared. I'm alone, lost. If I ever needed a big brother, it's now.

I can't buy all the chemicals at the same store. The cops are just hours from getting the DNA test results back, but those are very valuable hours. I don't need any store clerks raising questions. I go to three different stores and get the supplies. I drudge up my memories of oxidation and reduction. I remember in high school I took advance placement chemistry. The teacher didn't want to have too many kids drop it, so he would blow things up a lot, trying to keep our attention. How to make a bomb, it's a very valuable life lesson. I silently thank Mr Westcott for the knowledge.

I pull into the station. I need to get Brian out. I'm carrying a few bags, but people don't seem to care. I walk through the building and smile. People smile and wave at me too. It feels odd. I have a few hours left before they find out I'm guilty. That means impending doom, not immediate doom. As I walk through the station, I look around. This will be the last time that I ever am in this building. Hopefully. Policemen dressed in blue walk around. I don't want to kill anyone, or cause too much destruction. On the third floor, towards the western corner, there is a store room, hardly ever used. Nothing of great value is in there, it's far away enough from the homicide department to leave it empty. The perfect place.

This shouldn't be too hard. I'd think that blowing up a police station would be difficult, but when you have free access to anywhere in it, it becomes a lot more easy. I shift the bags in my arms as I enter the old store room. I have to do this. Because I can't leave without Brian. He is essential to my continued survival.

It all comes back to me. The chemistry lessons, my college professors, the lecture on lab safety. This isn't a lab, and this definitely isn't safe. But it's for survival. Harry's code taught me how to survive for so long, but now it says nothing. Now there's a new code at play, the code that tells me to follow my brother. My survival depends on him, and his survival depends on me. I feel like I finally caught up with the human race and their interdependency. Our evolution that forced us to become more and more social creatures, that there is safety in numbers. I'm the last of the great apes that is just now joining a group.

It'll blow in roughly five minutes. I don't think it'll collapse the ceiling. Hope not. I don't want people die, I just want them to panic for a few minutes. Just long enough for me to get Brian out.

I go to the homicide department. No one is around the screen anymore. Brian is sitting in the room, alone. His head is down. I don't waste time staring. I unplug it, forcing the camera to stop recording. They don't need to know I'm behind this for a little while longer. Every second counts.

I walk into the room, uncertain. I can't stop now though. I need to get out of here as soon as possible. The bomb will blow very soon, and we will have only so much time before they close the premises. If we get locked in, we're dead.

And there's Brian, my brother, sitting there in the room, shirtless. They must have already taken it for testing. His eyes flick up as soon as I walk in, but when he sees it's me, his entire heads snaps up. The hate and anger on his face vanish instantly, leaving only confusion. He looks around, uncertain, wanting a queue. Like an actor that forgot his lines, he's eyeing me, waiting for me to set the scenario.

"We have to go Brian", I say softly. He's my only friend now. Because soon the entire world will close in on us. He seems further confused by the use of his real name. He looks up at the camera. The red light is off.

"What's going on Dexter?", he asks, softly, like me, but still sharper. He has no control of the situation, and we like control.

"There's going to be a loud explosion soon", I say. He seems shocked. He understands it's a bomb, I'm sure, but he probably doesn't understand why I would get so drastic. "I'm fucked, brother", I try to explain. We don't have time for a full explanation right now. "We have to be ready to go in..." I look at my watch to gauge the time. It's set to explode any time now. "Right around now", I finish. He stands, ready to move. "Once we get out of this room, we turn left. We run until we get to the stairs. They are just a feet from beyond the elevators. We run down. This building has a basement, so we won't go down all the flights. Don't let that trip you up", I mutter. We position ourselves around the door. I'll take the led, since I know this building better. It's a mutual understanding. "Once we are on the ground floor, we go take another left to the fire exit. My car is just outside", I continue to mutter.

"We should wait a few seconds after the bang to let the crowd move out of our way", he mutters back. He's ready, waiting, understanding. He doesn't know why it's come to this, but he's willing to put the questions aside and focus on the here and now. I need to learn how to do that.

"Five seconds", I reply. We wait in silence, like track runners waiting for the gun shot to mark the beginning of the race. On your mark...Get set...

It's loud. That's what I wanted, more noise than actual damage. The building feels like it shakes though, so maybe my chemistry was off. We are both muttering, counting to five, trying to ignore the loud boom, the vibrations emanating throughout the building, and the way that the lights flicker.

One. Loud screams fill the air.

Two. The wild screams start to form words, questions about what happened.

Three. Someone yells that the building is coming down.

Four. More screams and a stampede of people flow through the hallways and away from us.

Five. I swing the door open.

We run out as fast as we can. It chaos outside. My stomach tightens at the mess. I wanted a diversion, something to hold their attention for ten minutes, but I got more than that. Most of the lights are off, a few flicker, and only two are left fully functional. Some desks are tossed over, a few people are on the ground, some screaming in pain. Others are lying too still. The building did shake. It moved even. The floor is tilted slightly. This is a lot more than I expected. Maybe I should have spent the time to get real instructions, rather than just trying to remember old chemistry lectures. A lot of innocent people will die if the building collapses.

And two guilty people if we don't run faster.

We don't stop running. We need to run for our lives. We jump over bodies that I hope aren't dead, dodge running people who I hope won't die. A woman's cries about a man called Daniel are briefly heard, but soon are drowned out by other screams.

We get to the stair case. Most people are either leaving the building and already ahead of us, or going to see what exploded and are already past us. We are alone in the stairwell. We don't stop though. We run down. I pay attention to the doors that pass us.

Ground floor. I make a sharp turn and Brian follows.

The first floor has more people in it. Organized, this time. There's a man shouting instructions with a group of people around him to our left. We need to go left.

I stop and stare from around the corner. Brian is next to me. He knows this is an issue. He's staring at me. I know that layout of this building a lot better than him. I need to find an alternative route. The people are organized. With organization comes awareness. They'll see Brian. They'll notice him and take action. I can't lose Brian.

We go right. The crowd doesn't see us. We loop around and exit through the main doors. There's people outside, staring at the building. Me and Brian are walking as fast as we can without drawing too much attention. I glance up at what they are staring up. A window has smoke pouring out of it. The floor seems slightly crushed, causing a minor tilt for all the floors above it.

I don't waste any more time staring. We go around the building and into the secluded parking lot. No one followed us. No one noticed Brian's mad dash to freedom. No one cares about a single man running for freedom in a large group of people running for their lives.

I thrust my car keys towards him. I'm done. I don't know where to go from here, what to do. The code says nothing. My mind draws a blank. The only thing I want to do is stay, to try and ride it out. Hope that the DNA tests magically come back negative. That's suicide, and I know it. That's why it's up to Brian now. Like a runner, I pass the baton to my brother.

"I have no idea what to do", I tell him, holding my keys out to him. He looks at the keys, then me, then to the empty parking lot around us.

"Can you tell me what the fuck is going on first?", he asks, grabbing the keys and going for my car. I follow him.

"They figured out you were wearing my clothes", I state. The fact still makes me frown. I got caught. It was a stupid mistake. I didn't even think about it when he asked for clothes. My brother needed clothes. Getting caught never factored into the equation. Brian stops walking and looks at me. He seems almost sorry, regretful. He realizes what that means. He knows how much I feel attached to my old life. He knows that this isn't easy, that I can't evolve quick enough to adapt to my changing environment. I'm like the saber tooth tiger, lethal inside its element, doomed outside of it. He returns to walking soon though. We need out of here. He hasn't forgotten that.

"So that's why they took my shirt. I thought it was a new interrogation technique", I can't tell if that was a joke or serious. I don't care. My mind is already shutting down. I just want to follow my brother, and trust he'll lead me to safety. Trust. I trusted him since he first broke into my apartment. I trust him even more now. Because if he does betray me, I'll be no worse off than if I never went back for him in the first place.

"They got a search warrant too. They were already in my apartment when I found out. They'll find your prints and your hair", and there is nothing else to say. It's so simple, how it all happened. Just one little mistake, and my house of cards came tumbling down. Just like that. I can only stare at the rubble, the burnt remains of what was once Dexter Morgan.

Brian stays silent as we enter my car. I don't think he knows what to say. I don't expect him to. Everything is gone. Deb, I'll never see her again. Rita, the kids, they're history. Never again will I sit down at my desk and work. People will never look at me as a friend ever again. I'm forever branded as a monster.

The idea of drifting from town to town, killing freely is a nice fantasy. But it's nice only as a fantasy. It just doesn't work in reality. I rest my head against the window. Brian drives us away. To where? I have no clue. Hopefully he has another one of his plans. If not, maybe he can make another plan. I rub my face and sigh. I just want to go home. To my home that is no longer my home. I don't have a home. I have nothing. I have a little over three hundred dollars in my wallet, ten grand in the bank with no way to get it, no home, no food, no spare clothes. Nothing.

I have a car. That's about it. I sigh again. Maybe I shouldn't run. Maybe I should let them catch me. Presuming they don't find the blood slides, I'd only be charged with aiding in the escape of a murder. Sure, everyone around me will hate me, but I'll get out of jail soon enough. I'm in my early thirties, still plenty of time to rebuild my life.

A hand is placed on my shoulder, gripping me slightly.

"Don't sigh so much. You're going to get me depressed", Brian says, trying to cheer me up. One of his bullshit 'have to pull through' speeches would only insult my intelligence and he knows it. No, he's real. A real brother, a real friend, a real ally. To bring lies into our relationship would be a new kind of sin against my new code. The only wrong that that he cares about avoiding.

"Sorry, it's just my entire life is destroyed, and there is a very good chance that I'll get caught and killed", I mutter. Gloomy, I know, but I'm having trouble looking on the bright side right now. Just something about impending doom brings out the worst in me. I look at Brian. He has that look again. He has something to say, but is biting his tongue. "Just say it", I groan. I don't want to struggle to coax my brother's thoughts out of him.

"It's a new beginning. A new life. And you can choose what to do with it. We can go anywhere you want, be anything you want", it's close to one of his bullshit speeches, but off in just the right places. This one is real. It's not about inner strength or perseverance of the human spirit. It's a gift; the one thing I truly love. Control. He is offering me control, the power to choose my fate. And it is comforting. A new beginning. Anything that I want to do. I look at him. His hand is still resting on my shoulder. The contact is...nice. I look back to the window. We are taking the back roads. Avoiding any potential police probably. Caution first. So it's not just part of the code, it's a necessity for any successful serial killer.

Brian's hand is hot on my shoulder. I've never liked hugs. It's part of the sociopath thing. I've never understood the human want and need for contact. I've always just seen them as a violation of my personal space. But right now I do understand. It's nice to feel someone that is with you. Especially when that person is the person who will save you, guide you to freedom. The physical contact adds reassurance.

Freedom. I rest my cheek against the window again. I remember that night so many nights ago that Brian handed me a knife and wanted me to inflict this on myself. He wanted me to kill Deb. I refused. I wanted to keep my old life. But it was too late. The very second I stepped foot at the house, I had stepped into quicksand, sucking me deeper and deeper in. My life is lost now. I'm no longer Dexter Morgan, the man that Harry built from a small boy found in his mother's blood. I'm a rouge killer. Running from the police, abandoning my life and all those in it. I'm Dexter Moser again. The same as I was before Harry, only now it's after Harry.

"And one other thing", Brian says. He removes his hand from my shoulder and returns it to the steering wheel. "We aren't getting caught. I had already planned the getaway out. We just need to stop by the house to pick up a few things", he finishes. Good, he has supplies. So I'm going have more than just my car, which we will probably have to ditch soon anyway. I knew he wouldn't just leave that part unplanned. The getaway can be considered the most important part of this whole thing. "We are going to be free Dex", Brian mutters, more to himself than me.

I have my brother. That's another thing.

I turn the radio on and listen for the news. I'd like to know if I killed several dozen innocent men and women. Whether or not that part of the code is still intact. Music plays for a while. Some Indian techno stuff that I don't think either of us care for. "In other news, no fatalities in the bombing of the police department. Two were seriously injured, but are expected to make a full recovery. No word yet on any suspects", I turn the radio off. That's good, no one was killed. I didn't break the code. Just the spirit of the code again. I think I killed the spirit a long time ago. Right around the time we plotted Doakes' death over breakfast.

"No one died", Brian says. He knows that's important to me. He still doesn't know why, but he knows it is.

"Yeah", I mutter. It's important to me, but it doesn't make this situation any better.

"So, about your code...", he starts again. I lift my head and look at him. The code, our major point of disagreement. This will be fun. "The whole thing with me killing Doakes, and you not stopping me...was that a temporary thing?", I blink, somewhat confused. What is he getting at? Does he think I'm going to kill him now? When I need him more than ever?

"I'm not going to kill you, if that is what you're asking", I state, deadpan. I put my head against the window again, watching the nice suburban houses go by, with happy families in their perfect little lives.

"Close, but that isn't what I'm getting at", I look back at him. "I kill prostitutes because they're easy. But it you have...moral objections, I can change that", moral objections? That's not really the right way to put it, but is he saying...

"Are you offering to follow the code?", I honestly didn't see that coming. He doesn't like Harry and he thinks the code is pointless. I didn't think his respect for me would outweigh that this much.

"Well, I'm not sure how killing people will work after this, but if you want me to, I can", he says with a shrug. I am, once again, thrown off by how easy it is to work with him. Usually the people I share my dark secret with fight me all the way. "I mean, if we are going to tag team, then there's really not much a question, I'd have to follow the code", tag team? As in killing together? He intended to kill Deb with me. He even said he wanted to do it together, so I am not sure why the idea never really sunk in. The idea is...different. Talking about our dirty secret is one thing, but exposing it in reality for each other to see? It's intriguing.

"Tag teaming, huh?", how serious is he with that idea?

"We'll see how it works out", he says, almost reading my mind. That gives me a lot to think about. We stay quiet for a while, thinking. The code? I'm not sure where I stand there. I already feel like I shattered it, but I still can't imagine living without it. I decide that desperate times calls for desperate measures. That the first rule gives me permission to bend the other parts slightly. I also decide that I would like Brian to follow it with me. If my mistakes can be forgotten, so can his. It'd be better this way. I wouldn't have to feel like I'm violating the spirit of the code. In some meager, rudimentary sense, I can have both my old and new life. Harry and Brian can coexist, even if it's just slightly.

As far as tag teaming goes...The idea is interesting. I've let Brian into my most personal and private secrets. That's what makes this real. To actually have him with me on the hunt...I'm not sure how our butchering styles would work together, but it's something to experiment with.

Brian sighs and stretches, keeping one hand on the wheel. He still doesn't have a shirt. He always seemed scrawny with how thin he was, which made sense. He's a doctor. I just presumed he spent his spare time thinking and working rather than exercising. But I was wrong, he does have well defined muscle. He has to, he kills people. Strangles them too, that takes strength. I've never had the guts to strangle with my bear hands. I always needed the upper hand, a surprise attack. Then again, I hunt a lot stronger prey than just hookers. "I never took you for a tattoo guy", I mutter, noticing the circular tattoo on his shoulder.

"Drunken college frat boy party", he says automatically. "I'm just thankful it's nothing obscene", he finishes. That strikes me as odd.

"I never took for a drunken frat boy either", I just can't picture it. I've always hated parties. My college years had been very dry. The idea of him, crammed into a small dorm room, surrounded by drunken people and loud music, and actually having fun seems impossible.

"I like beer and women. And that's all there is to the parties", he says. Beer and women. He does like women, and he's never stuck up his nose at beer, though I've never seen him drunk. I look back outside, amused at the concept.

My brother the drunken frat boy.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Surprise Motherfucker, thought I was gone? Also, as you will sadly notice, I seem to have fallen out of contact with my beta, so if anyone wants to step up to the plate, that would be awesome.

* * *

I really don't have a plan. I know, so unlike myself. I'll have to get the basic rundown from Brian. Once he returns from his latest crime, that is. For whatever reason, he felt the need to break into the house across the street. Not that I doubt him. I trust that he knows what he is doing, I am just saying that _I_ don't know what he is doing. Not exactly the neighborly thing to do.

Whatever his motive, it is almost mesmerizing to watch him. He is so casual crossing the street, keeping his head down. As he approaches the door he does a small twirl, looking around, before working on the lock. He is quick, proficient. It is so easy to see him doing the same to my apartment. I wonder if anyone noticed. Did they recognize him as a stranger? Did they find him odd? Probably not, considering no one told me. Maybe they just don't care about me, I can't say I am a social and friendly neighbor either.

He disappears into the darkness of the house, closing the door gently behind him. Even across the street, I can see the care he takes. It mirrors my own.

I crack a smile at that thought. He does mirror me. Probably why he had my respect from the very beginning. He was never just another murderer. His kills were fascinating. Careful, methodical, planned out. Just like me. And the way he moves, switching between his persona, acting normal, and picking locks is just like me too. I always thought that the Code molded me, without it I would be a senseless murderer, no different than those who make their way on my table. But Brian, while codeless, is not just a mindless killer. He has purpose and a sense of wits around him. Would I be like him? Aware, careful, and free of the code. Not one of the lowlifes on my table, but just me, minus the code. The concept is almost frightening with its implications.

But then again, I don't really know how my brother works. I've learned of him more than I learned about him. Powerful, intense, and adapting, I hardly know the inner workings of his mind. He seemed so set in his ways, brazenly killing to leave a message. Because a voicemail was just too boring for him. And yet, he changed so quickly. Switching from his unstoppable path ending with Deb's death by my hands to a meek child hiding away in the dark.

No, that isn't right. He was never hiding and it was never cowardice that stopped him. It was him changing his plan, stepping back, giving me room. It was him going from the Ice Truck Killer to my brother. I look at our old house, trying to force the memories. I feel like I walked in on an important conversation and am missing pieces. Of course, Brian gave me enough to see the picture, but the finer details, who we were before, how we were and how he wants us to be are still missing. Laying out such elaborate schemes for just such a simple goal of a family reunion still doesn't seem real to me, no matter how much the evidence points it to be so.

"Coming little brother?", I hate to say that I jumped, but those are good reflexes to have, being on the run now. What I am more concerned about is the rush of warmth through my veins at the term 'little brother'.

"Yeah", I mutter, getting out of the car and following my brother, donning a new shirt, into the house. I briefly wonder if Brian gets caught again, will they track down the family next door and search their place too? If they did, they would only find Brian's prints in all the acceptable places, unlike my apartment.

The house is familiar. The memories are right on the top of my head but just won't come out. Me and Brian and our sweet mother Laura. A brother to play with me and protect me, a mother to love me and care for me. The ghost memories almost knock loose some long lost emotions. Almost, but as always, they are just whispers of the true thing.

I stop, staring at the kitchen. There are memories there, lurking. Of Brian and my mother ,and all three of us too. Cooking maybe? Washing hands? The memories insist on hiding and it only frustrates me more.

"How much do you remember?", I look at Brian, just for a moment, before looking back at the kitchen. He has that intense star again. Demanding information that will be used for future plans. It is oddly comforting, to have someone else to plan and plot with. Someone watching out for me.

"Not much. Just random memories", I end my hunt with a scowl. No matter how long I stare, the kitchen tells me nothing. There is a long moment where we both stay silent and still.

"We would play in here a lot", Brian finally says, breaking the silence. Play. The push starts the memories, finally teasing them out of hiding.

"We'd put blanks over the table and chairs to make a fort", I finish. Well, Brian would make the fort anyway. I just played with him after.

"It is amazing how easy it is to entertain kids", he says, and if I had not looked his way, I would have completely missed the wide grin on his face.

"Yeah", I mutter, looking back at the table. The memory is in focus now, the two of us playing just like any other children. Normal.

"We can stay here tonight, if you'd like", Brian says after another long pause. "There will be less traffic at night anyway. Harder to blend in and sneak by", but we both know that it has nothing to do with that. Here, in this house where we began, it is only right to begin again in it. Brian can reminisce and I can hopefully get more memories. And then we can start a new life together.

"That'd be good", I agree, looking around the house. He moves towards the back and I am slow to follow, getting a good look at the house for the first time. The bedroom that he is staying in is the master one. It still has the aura of familiarity, but much less. Not surprising, it was our mother's room. He walks to the corner of the almost empty room. There are a few things. Water bottles, some dehydrated and instant food, and a couple of bags.

"That duffle bag is important. Make sure it doesn't get left behind", he comments as he checks over the supplies, peaking my curiosity. I grab it and glance at him to make sure that I can open it without offending him. He doesn't look at me and I take that as an 'I don't care' on the opening question.

Cash. Hundred dollar bills jump out at me, with smaller ones scattered around. Thousands of dollars in cash. I would hug my brother, if we both didn't hate hugs. Four hundred dollars, minus what I had to spend to get him out, would have gotten us half way across the state at best. This is the kind of money that we can live on for a little while. This will get our new lives going. My brother was a smart investment indeed.

"Keep digging", Brian says, looking at me. He seems to have confirmed that everything was in place and now gives me his full attention. I look back down at the duffle bag, digging through the cash to find a large envelope. I have a feeling I'll like what is inside.

Two bundles of papers, held together with a rubber band. Birth certificates, social security numbers, driver's licenses with my face. Multiples of each, several new identities ready to go. Michel Gillboy, George Frankin, Dexter Moser.

I stop, dawdling on the last one. Me, my first identity. I look through it, looking at the names of my parents and the location and time of my birth. The birth of a Moser, not a Morgan. The life that was hidden away from me.

"We probably shouldn't be using our real identities. I have almost two decades of being institutionalized due to anti-social personality behavior on mine, and your social security number is linked to a police station bombing and aiding in the escape of a serial killer", it is an unpleasant reminder. I doubt that he meant it to be, but it still leaves me frozen to think that I am now on the run. I decide to change the subject to something that nibbles at my mind looking at these people.

"Who were they?", 'were', because they must be dead. My brother must have killed them and made sure the bodies were never found.

"Not people you would approve of me killing", he comes out with it. Frustration wells inside of me, but I know it shouldn't. It was before he agreed to abide by the code. I have to let any past mistakes go. If not for him, then for me, for my ability to work with him. "Speaking of that, we should figure this out", Brian says. He sits down on the small bed in the corner.

"The code?", I look at him, my attention gone from the paperwork.

"A code to keep you from getting too pissed at me. No offense, but I really don't want to follow your code to the tee"

"A lot of it is null now. Most of it was on how to not get caught", it is a harsh fact, but reality. All the little rules on how to fit in, keep a steady job, have a girlfriend, be normal are out the window. Maybe when things settle down we can build on one of these new identities, but right now people are looking for us. My brother's face is plastered on every news station nationwide, and it won't be long before I join him.

"So?...", he wants ground rules. He doesn't care how intact the code is or isn't. He even said he doesn't want to follow it, that he is willing to tolerant some rules. So, I'll give him a basic run down.

"Rule number one, don't get caught", caught being defined as arrested, since we are already found out. Not that he cares about the subtleties, but in my own mind, the rule has to be adjusted and refitted for our new situation.

"As it should be", he sounds almost sarcastic. Of course he agrees fully with rule number one, any self-respecting serial killer would. But it is an important one. The most important one. That should make him happy. It is above the part on who to kill.

"Rule number two, don't kill innocent people", ah, and now we get to the meat of the issue. Of course he already knew about this one. But judging by the look on his face, he has issues with it. Can't say that I am surprised.

"Innocent being people who have never killed anyone?"

"Senselessly and without remorse", I clarify. Best not to be vague. "People who have killed in self-defense or with good cause and people who have killed and are remorseful and never want to do it again. You cannot kill those people", I gauge his reaction carefully. He clearly is not happy about it. His face is hard and almost seems on the edge of a glare. "It's really not that bad", I add because it isn't and I really don't see why it almost hurts him to agree. He sighs, frustrated and looks away.

"So, only kill people like us?", he jabs at the hypocrisy of it, something that I never fully denied.

"Yes", if he wanted to knock me off kilter he failed.

"What about self-defense? Like with Doakes", he asks, moving on. He doesn't seem to have full heartily accepted the idea of killing only murderers, but he isn't fighting me about it, so I'll move on with him. To the very good question he brought up. If we have to kill to avoid arrest, can we? We did it with Doakes, but I still had to make my brother do it. It seemed less dirty, even though I knew it wasn't. I don't know what to say to it. It is still killing an innocent person and thus against the code. Brian seems to sense this. He knows that it is a weak point and I silently thank him for not using it to try to wear down on the code. I opt to answer it with the same answer I use to have before.

"We don't get in that situation", because that is how I did it for so long. I would creep along and never give any clues.

"Dexter", he knows that is shit. We both know. But I don't know what else to say. "Look, I'll try not to get into that position, but we are kind of wanted here. And I am not going to fucking die for some dead man's morals", anger is laced heavily into his voice. He is offended at the thought of dying for over something like that. I don't like the thought either. "I'm not going to let you die either", he adds, giving me a stern look that lays down his own law. He's willing to play along with my code, but if he feels the need to break it, he will. For now, I'll just follow the precedent we already set since it fits well.

"If you have to, you can kill to save us", 'us', I say. Not 'you'. It is a cop out, but I don't want to kill an innocent person. I'd rather it be done by some else's hands, even if it means nothing. It's like a person who pays to have someone else kill their meat. They die all the same, but I get to sleep free and happy at night. But he has already shown himself more than willing to defend the both of us.

Brian seems to like that answer. He might want to ask more on it, but he decides against it. Best not to test it, I am sure is his reasoning.

"What is your stance on doing some less-than friendly things to innocent people, without killing them?", 'less-than friendly' being code for what? Rape? Theft? Assault? And the way he draws out 'innocent' makes a small scowl come onto my face. Surely, he sees the difference between people like us and people like Deb. The sheep and the wolves, the pure and tainted. Innocent and guilty.

"Only if we have to", I side step my prior frustration. He is willing to put a lot on the side to make this work, and I am willing to meet him halfway. Though I realize that I am leaving a lot of the questions open ended. The answer depends on how much we need to do it. What will happen if we don't kill that man or rob that woman. But the fact that Brian is looking for a well-defined set of rules and not so much a loop hole to cheat, it seems like he'll use discretion. Hopefully.

"So, kill killers and don't get caught killing killers. Anything else?"

"Third and final rule. Be certain. We need proof that someone is guilty before we kill them", although, as I say it, I realize how difficult that might be. Without access to the criminal database or even a steady internet access at all, this could be hard. I was use to my police resources when I hunted, but now, it might not be so easy. Brian seems to accept my answer though, trusting that I will have to know-how to accomplish this. He probably assumes that if I don't, he will have an excuse to go back on the code. Another frown makes its way onto my face as I see that as yet another another possible issue in our future.

"So, if I follow your simply three step program to becoming a real life Batman, I am not going to wake up one day in one of your kill rooms?", he jokes and I can't help but smile too, despite the slander to the code. At this point, Brian would have to act pretty wild in order for me to be moved to kill him. But he doesn't seem to realize the cards he is holding. That, or he doesn't view this as a competition between the two of us.

"And hopefully my body won't ever be found frozen and bloodless"

"I think we have a deal then", he gives me a cheeky smirk. I suppose this is a big step in our relationship. We agreed not to kill each other.

"Although, if you want to wear a cape and pretend to be Batman, you cannot be seen with me", I add, playing on our joke. He cracks a smile and something beautiful is born.

"On a semi-related note, your car is still outside", he changes the subject. My car. I thought for a brief second that I might have blocked his car and he wanted me to move it. How else would he get to work? The whole 'running from the law' thing is new to me.

"I'm guessing we need to get rid of it"

"And get a new one", so, swapping cars. Cars get stolen all the time, and rarely recovered. But how to make sure we do nothing stupid that breaks rule number one.

"Obviously we want to watch out for security cameras", I say to start the conversation.

"We might also want to be careful where we leave your car", he adds. "Wouldn't be hard to figure out our new car if it was stolen ten feet from our old one", and he's right, that is one of those small things that a good detective can use to close a case. Finding the car they are looking for and then looking for stolen cars near it. And then you have your new wanted car.

"I'll drop you off somewhere to get a car and then you can pick me up where I leave mine", another plan comes together. Hopefully it won't crash and burn like our last one did.

"Yeah…", Brian mutters, thinking.

"What?", I ask, not all that inspired by his overwhelming confidence. He hums a toneless sound for a moment. He has something to say, something that I won't like.

"I tend to just kill the guy to get the car", he confesses. Well, he just informs me, but it feels like it should be a confession. "And I take it that is not an option", he almost looking pleadingly at me, as though to say 'just this one last time'. But he wouldn't even be killing for pleasure, he'd be doing it for convenience. And he can find another way.

"You can find someone who left their keys somewhere", probably not, but I don't want it to be my problem. He's smart, he'll figure it out. He sighs, frustrated. But again, not my problem.

"We should do this before you officially become wanted and they start looking for your car", he says as he stands. He's right, we are still in the twilight of my old life. The DNA tests might be nearing competition, but they still have to regroup and talk about what it means. Deb will probably try to defend me, and people will hopefully be slow to admit that they worked with a monster. Best to do all these things before my man hunt begins.

* * *

I drop Brian off in a sketchier part of town. Where there are old warehouses, lots of car jacking's, few people milling about, and little security cameras. We agree to meet at an old run down church. Which gives me a good amount of time to sit here and twiddle my thumbs, pondering the shit storm that is my life. I don't like the spare time. I don't like change and I don't like having to sit still with nothing to think about but how much change I am faced with. I might even feel the smallest tugs of guilt for running off with the guy who emotionally destroyed my sister. I guess I really can't do much more to hurt her than just add the icing to the cake at this point. I take that as a good thing.

I even start to think about doing something for her. Reaching out, giving her my last goodbyes. Something other than just this. Across Miami, my sister must have been thinking the same thing, because my cell phone starts to ring. I really should have gotten rid of it, the police can use it to track me. I certainly shouldn't answer, but how can I leave her without even saying goodbye? Just a parting message, a final goodbye. And then my cell phone will go the way of my car.

"Hey Deb", I force myself to sound cheery. This is a present for her, and it will be the best I can do.

"Hey Dex, what are you up to?", she sounds happy, but it is clearly faked. I was suppose to go to my apartment. I was suppose to be there already. I wasn't suppose to have blood slides, butchering tools, or my brother's clothes. Even though my façade is falling, I decide not to answer with an honest 'looking for a car unlinked to me so that I can flee the state and possibly country'.

"Just a little project. Sorry, I sort of got distracted. You know how it goes"

"Yeah, well, you probably should have fucking came", her voice cracks. Is it fear or hurt? I don't know, but I know my course of action. Step one, don't confess to anything they don't know about.

"Why is that?"

"We found some weird ass stuff. Some circumstantial shit, but still people are freaking out over it", circumstantial evidence, the best kind of evidence. Well, for my side anyway.

"Uh, not sure what you are talking about", the slides? My tools? Doubt they would classify anything from my brother circumstantial, but I might be able to play the clothes thing off. After all, he has stolen clothes from innocent people. The finger prints and hair might be a different story, but they cannot confirm that they are my brother's for a few hours yet.

"Some weird fucking… tool set I guess", my tools. I can work with that. "Found them in a trunk in your closet. Like some fucking butchering set or some shit."

"Right, that. A gift from dad, back from we use to hunt together. I never use it anymore, but I don't have the heart to throw it away", now would be a bad time for her to point out how unsentimental I am.

"It also has some freaky ass hardware. Drills and shit", her voice cracks again. She knows that something is wrong. I know that it is hopeless. But lying is the only thing I know to do in this situation.

"Yeah, it sort of became the collection of unused gifts"

"Not all that dusty for an untouched set"

"Sometimes I like to reminisce. The hunting trips, with dad", it is a weak cover and she knows it. Maybe that is why she doesn't push any father. They certainly found Brian's clothes, and maybe the blood slides. She picked the least incriminating thing, and stopped when it my lies fell flat. She knows, she just wants to be convinced that she is wrong.

She knows. My house of cards is now drifting down. Destroyed, but the pieces have yet to hit the ground. This will probably be the last time I will talk to her. I grip the phone tighter at the realization. I may not have much emotion, but this thought still makes my heart sink and I feel something that just might be wisps of guilt. She knows, and if not, she will by tonight. This will be the last time we talk. And she deserves more than some lies to make her feel slightly better before the world come crashing down. She deserves some parting words.

"I'm sorry. And I'm rarely sorry, but I am sorry Deb"

"No, no, no, no. Don't you fucking say that", I actually crack a small grin when I realize how those words parallel what Brian sad when I refused to kill Deb. It's not funny, just fitting.

"I know I already said this, but it is true. You have to keep going-"

"Stop it", her voice cuts through mine. "Fucking stop", she's crying. I carry on.

"This is really hard and I know it. I know that this could destroy a person-"

"Fuck Dexter…", she sobs. Deb, sobbing. It is so out of place that it could have been funny. But as I said, this isn't funny.

"But you have two choices here. You can give up or you can keep going", I don't know what else to say or if I even hit the mark. She is crying, but that is not surprising.

"What the fuck? Why would you fucking help that fuck!", anger, not really surprising either. In fact, I expected it first, but I don't really know much about complex emotions. Still, I don't know what to say.

"Dex, did you make the bomb?", her voice is soft now, a whimper. The bomb that allowed Brian to escape. Not hard to peg it to me, I made no attempt to cover my tracks.

"Deb", I say, stern. It is the voice I use to try to bring her back to reality. This time I use it to push her away from reality. I don't want to have to explain everything to her, I want to say goodbye.

"I don't know what the fuck is going on or how he is fucking…controlling you, but just come back. We'll protect you. We'll get you the best damn lawyer in Miami, and you can come back and everything will be fucking fine", she thinks Brian is manipulating me. A logical guess that fulfills her emotion need to preserve my innocence.

And I might be able to pull it off too. Brian can go free and I could return to my normal life. It'd be hard to explain, there is a decent chance I will be found guilty of something. But how much can they put on me? With a good lawyer and a semi-believable sob story, I might be able to get off free. Maybe I was too rash. I wanted to Brian free and I was panicked. Unless, of course, they found the blood slides and will be running DNA tests on them, in which cased I am completely fucked. Another major unknown.

Or I could be free, with my brother. I look in the direction Brian is. He is out of sight, across the city, but I can still sense him, hiding in the corners. Ready, waiting, and so completely unwilling to back down. What would he make of that idea? Him going free and I returning to normal. Probably wouldn't like it.

"Dexter, please. You are all I have damn it, and you could get him for us. You could fucking lead us right to him. I don't know what he has on you, but is it fucking worth it?", that is right. If I go back, I would have to give information about my brother. I could give useless information, lies, but if I don't lead them to Brian, I could very well be tipping the scales out of my balance, if they were even with me to begin with.

"After all he fucking did, you are just going to go with him?", anger again. But judging by the pattern, bargaining and denial will be back too.

"Deb, just trust me. You won't ever see me again, but I never wanted to hurt you"

"Dexter, what the fuck is going?"

"I'm sorry Deb", I'm about to hang up. This conversation has run its course. It may not have been a grand closure to the performance of a lifetime I put on, but everything that needed to be said was said. So my thumb is skimming the _end_ button right when Deb stats to talk again. Calmer this time.

"Can we do this in person?", she asks. She isn't crying anymore, but voice is still coated with pain. Any feeling person would have pity and agree. But I am not feeling and I know what a horrible that is.

"Deb, no. I can't"

"Please Dex! I can't just let it end like fucking this! With a fucking phone call", she's crying again and yelling.

"I don't like the way this is ending either. But it just has to be this way"

"Come on. He sleeps doesn't he? I mean, whatever the hell he is controlling you with, it doesn't seem like he has a fucking gun to your head or anything. Just sneak out, just for one night. I won't make you do anything, I just want to talk", her last line weakens my resolve. Deb has always been honest. She doesn't like to trick people, even the lowly criminals she hunts. Honest, that is one thing I trust Deb to be.

"And you won't bring anyone else? No tricks, just you and me, to talk", I really shouldn't. It is a horrible idea. But I trust Deb. I know she has a motive to lie, but she has had other motives to lie and cheat in the past. She doesn't though, and so I can trust her. Her mood, how broken she is, she just wants her big brother. Just like I wanted mine. And I was willing to throw everything else aside to get him.

"Of course not. Thank you Dexter. Thank you, thank you", she chants, whimpering. I'm not sure if it will make things harder or easier in the long run for her, but I want to see her one last time. It is the least I can do. "I'll get a hotel room, they won't have either of our names"

"No, that is too public", I probably shouldn't have sounded so harsh. "Met me at the Grove Harbor Marina, one a.m.", and with that, I hang up and stare at my phone, wondering just how stupid of an idea this is.

Brian finds me like this. Leaning against my car, back to the sunset, just staring at my phone.

"Jesus Dex, you still have that?", he takes my phone from me and looks worried. My brother is so rarely ruffled, and considering how he is now an integral part of my survival, I don't like when he is. "Did you call anybody?", he asks as he takes the battery out.

"No", I lie. Deb was right, I will have to sneak by him. I watch idly as he chucks the battery into some trees, and the phone itself onto the road. He must see through my lie, because there is a tension between us as we get into the new car. He has that calculating looking and I know he is plotting ahead. I opt to bring up a new topic.

"How'd you get this car?", he could have killed the owners and lie to me, and I would never be any wiser. This fact doesn't really bother me, not with Deb and our meeting still on my brain.

"I didn't kill anybody", he sounds defensive, not at all like the sheepish but playful tone he usually uses when he confesses to murders. His face his still cold, still calculating. I don't feel guilty, but I am worried. He knows that something is up, and that I am lying.

It's reasonable, I realize. He knows that I talked to someone, and he knows that I told them something. I could be plotting to turn him in to save myself and my old life. He has no way of knowing, and so the trust that was forming between us is smothered. Practically speaking, I know how dangerous that is.

"It was Deb", I give my brother some truth. Just enough to repair the trust between us.

"Dexter", he groans, sighs, and just extrudes frustration. He probably still wants her dead. He probably hates her for taking his place as my sibling. He probably hates how much I still feel attached to her. I should probably choose my words carefully.

"I didn't tell her anything. She called, and I took the chance to say goodbye", it is the truth, and almost the whole truth. But he still seems uneasy. Unconvinced. He knows that I will lie and never stop lying.

"You know she can never accept your true self", his voice is low, soft, passionate. Like when he revealed himself, when I was drugged and taped to a chair, though that makes it seem like a much worse night than it really was.

"I know", and I do know. She believes that this is some sort of hostage situation. Whatever works to keep her sane.

"Brian, I have an idea", it comes to me in a flash. A true, final departing gift for Deb, one that should make everyone happy. Or at least make Deb less broken. "Can we fake my death?", Brian looks at me, with an odd mixture of surprise and boredom. It is a good idea though. I get to be free, and I won't be looked for nearly as much as I would otherwise. I get to be with my brother, and Deb gets to keep her innocent view of me. I realize that, considering I agreed to meet with her tonight, she might blame herself. But that cannot be helped, she would probably blame herself anyway. Provided that they did not figure out that Brian is my brother during all of the maddened DNA testing that they surely have done, she will still view her as the center of Brian's attention, not me.

"I wouldn't be opposed", he agrees. And why wouldn't he? It works out well for him too. This getaway will go a lot smoother if my face isn't being plastered everywhere and hunted like an animal. And besides, that is all he wanted from the start, for me to burn my old life. What better way to do that than fake my own death? "But my line of expertise is killing people, not pretending to kill people", in other words, this is my problem. A jab from how I left him with the matter of a new car?

I consider if I should use tonight as part of my plan. I could drop a few lines, pave a path. My brother can make one last appearance later, hinting at my death. Perhaps I could set up a second meeting, but have Brian come to it. It would allow for the police to get the idea without being too obvious. Deb might face some fallout for meeting with me and not telling anyone. I continue to piece together a plan and we return to the house for the night. It is going to be turbulent few days, but hopefully we'll make it through the storm.


End file.
